COL.  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  FLOWERS 
MEMORIAL  COLLECTION 


DUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
DURHAM,  N.  C. 


PRESENTED  BY 

W.  W.  FLOWERS 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 


THE 


ROSE-BUD    WREATH. 


BY   CAROLINE    GILMAN, 


*»+**+  £SB»  \/*/ws~~ 


CHARLESTON. 

PUBLISHED  BY  S.   EABCOCE:  &  CO. 

MDCCCXLI. 


1 


m 


ENTERED, 

According  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841, 

BY     CAROLINE     GILMAN, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of 

SOUTH    CAROLINA. 


1^3^^  CONTENTS. 


Page 


The  American  Boy,    -     -     -     \    [ 9 

The  French  Traveler, 13 

Wishes, -     -     -     -  26 

The  Masks, 28 

Attempt  to  write  Poetry, 49 

Keeping  the  Sabbath  holy, 51 

Call  to  Sabbath  School,       - 55 

Tinytella.    A  Fairy  Tale, 56 

No*  ready  for  School, -  60 

The  Planter's  Son, 63 

The  Youngest  One, 70 

The  Fright  of  the  Butterflies, 72 

Morning  Hymn, 76 

Homesickness,      - 77 

The  Wagon  Boy, 79 

Evening  Hymn, 84 


222865 


Vlll.  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Choice  of  Countries, ---85 

The  Young  Mathematician,     -     -     -     -     -     -     -       89 

The  New  Boots,  ' 96 

St.  Nicholas.     A  Christmas  Dream,     -     -     -     -       99 

The  Tight  Boots,     - 105 

Cinderclaws.     A  Christmas  Dream,  -     -     -     -     -     108 

The  Choice  of  Hours, 114 

The  New  Scholar,  -     -     - 117 

Kept  in, 122 

A  Remonstrance  about  the  Drumstick,    -     -     -     -     123 

The  May-Day  Wreath,     -     -     -     - 125 

The  Flight  of  the  Muskogee  Indian,       -     -     -     -     130 

The  Plantation, 133 

The  Old  Frock, 148 


ERRATUM. 

1st  line  page  114,  for  choice  of  flowers  read  choice  of  hours. 


THE 


ROSE-BUD   WREATH 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY. 

Look  up,  my  young  American, 

Stand  firmly  on  the  earth, 
Where  noble  deeds  and  mental  power 

Yield  titles  over  birth. 

A  hallowed  land  thou  claim'st,  my  boy, 

By  early  struggles  bought, 
Heaped  up  with  noble  memories, 

And  wide, — aye,  wide  as  thought 
2 


222885 


JO  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

On  the  high  Alleghany's  range, 

Awake  thy  joyous  song ; 
Then  o'er  our  green  savannahs  stray, 

And  gentler  notes  prolong  : 

Awake  it  'mid  the  rushing  peal 

Of  old  Niagara's  voice, 
Or  by  our  ocean-rivers  stand, 

And  in  their  strength  rejoice. 

What,  though  we  boast  no  ancient  towers, 
Where  ivied  streamers  twine  1 

The  laurel   lives  upon  our   soil, 
The    laurel,   boy,   is   thine. 

What,  though  no  "minster  lifts  its  cross" 

Tinged  by  the  sunset   fire? 
Freely   religion's   voices  swell 

Round  every   village   spire. 

And  who  shall  gaze  on   yon   Hue  sea, 
If  thou  must  turn  away, 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  \\ 

When  young  Columbia's  stripes  and   stars 
Are   floating  in  the   day  1 

Who  thunders   louder  when  the   strife 

Of  gathering   war   is   stirr'd  1 
Who  ranges  farther   when   the  call 

Of  commerce's  voice  is    heard? 

What,  though  on  Cressy's  distant  field 

Thy  gaze  may   not  be   cast, 
While  through  long   centuries    of  blood 

Rise    spectres    of  the  past? 

The  future  wakes  thy  dreamings  high, 
And  thou  a  note  may'st  claim 

Aspiring,    which,  in  after  times, 
Shall  swell   the  trump  of  fame. 

Yet   scenes  are   here  for  patriot  thought; 

Here   sleep  the  good  and   brave ; 
Here   kneel,   my   boy,  and  altars  raise 

Above  the  martyr's   grave. 


|2  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

On  Moultrie's  isle,  on  Bunker's  height, 
On   Monmouth's  bloody  line, 

On  Eutaw's  field,  on  Yorktown's  bank, 
Erect  thy   loyal   shrine. 

And    when   thou'rt  told    of    knighthood's 
shields, 

And  English  battles  won, 
Look  up,  my  boy,  and  breathe  one  word, 

The   name  of  Washington. 


IS 


THE  FRENCH  TRAVELER. 

Louisa  and  Cecelia  Rutledge  once  loitered 
through  the  avenue  of  their  father's  plantation. 
The  morning  was  such  an  one  as  April  only 
knows  at  the  South,  where  vegetation  is 
almost  seen  to  grow  under  one's  eye.  Rich 
white  clouds,  kindly  gathering  over  the  soft- 
ened but  not  hidden  sun,  allowed  theni  to 
gaze  on  the  varied  hues  which  the  spring, 
struggling  with  winter,  was  throwing  through 
sunshine  and  cloud,  dew,  shower,  and  breeze, 
over  shrub  and  tree.  So  picturesque  was 
nature,  that  the  fair  girls  who  gazed  on  it 
were  only  lovelier  from  the  souls  that  looked 
through  their  eyes. 

Yet  beautiful  they  were,  when  in  the  energy 
of  some  sudden  thought  they  stopped  under 
the  oaks,  which,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 


14  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

formed  an  arch  of  almost  architectural  fitness 
above  them,  whose  regularity  was  disturbed 
only  by  the  gray  moss  floating  in  garlands  on 
the  breeze  ;  and  to  an  eye  of  love, — a  moth- 
er's eye, — that  watched  their  receding  forms, 
as  in  the  security  of  solitude  they  gave  way 
to  frolicksoine  spirits,  yet  unsubdued  by  climate 
or  circumstances,  they  were  indeed  more 
fascinating   than   inanimate  nature. 

The  mansion  from  which  they  were  wan- 
dering was  a  fit  residence  for  such  fair 
inma'tes.  The  hand  of  taste  was  in  every 
department.  Wealth  may  heap  up  its  lux- 
uries, and  the  eye  be  sated  and  unallured, 
but  let  such  an  hand  arrange  but  a  flower, 
and  it  speaks  a  language  wealth  can  never 
learn. 

A  branch  from  a  rosebush  was  trained  at 
each  window,  whose  blossoms,  without  ex- 
cluding the  breeze,  looked  within  on  lips 
and  cheeks  bright   as    their    petals.      Small 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  |g 

vases  of  flowers  were  scattered  around,  sev- 
eral fine  old  pictures  covered  the  walls,  and 
the  boast  of  modern  art  was  not  wanting. 
A  guitar,  that  delicious  country  friend,  stood 
ready  to  beguile  a  weary  or  hasten  a  happy 
hour,  while  its  hostess,  the  presiding  genius 
of  the  scene,  moved  and  looked  like  one 
whose  aim  was  first  a  pure  intercourse  with 
Heaven,  and  then  a  study  of  the  happiness 
of  others. 

One  window  of  the  sitting  room  was 
devoted  to  birds ;  not  to  caged  birds,  whose 
notes,  however  gay  they  may  seem,  carry 
to  the  ear  of  the  sentimentalist  those  of 
Sterne's  starling,  "I  can't  get  out."  There 
was  no  imprisonment  here ;  a  little  ledge 
projected  from  this  window,  where  Cecilia 
spread  rough  rice  every  morning  to  attract 
the  feathered  visitors.  There  the  beautiful 
red-bird  came  fearlessly,  and  others  cau- 
tiously,   and  poised   themselves  on  the   stem 


I 


IQ  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

of  a  shrub  that  entered  within  the  casement, 
and  hulled  the  yellow  rice-grains  with  dex- 
terous art,  or  listened  with  inclined  head  and 
peering  eyes  to  the  soft  tones  of  the  guitar. 

The  sisters,  Louisa  and  Cecilia,  paused 
in  their  rambling  talk  beneath  a  tree  in  the 
avenue,  attracted  by  the  notes  of  a  mock- 
ing-bird, which  seemed  pouring  out  its  little 
soul  in  melody,  and  after  listening  awhile 
resumed  their  conversation. 

"I  always  told  you,  Louisa,"  said  her 
sister,  "that  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  spoil 
your  sweet  eyes  with  writing  French,  and 
your  pure  English  in  speaking  it.  With 
whom  can  you  converse  in  French,  after 
having  twisted  your  mouth  and  ideas  with 
the  idioms  for  so  many  years?  The  only 
French  beau  you  are  likely  to  see,  is  old 
Cato,  and  his  St.  Domingo  patois,  has  not 
aU  the  purity  of  l'Acadamie  Franchise,  and 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  \  7 

if  you  talk  to  the  trees  they  will  only  make 
you  a   Parisian   bow." 

"I  feel  no  regret,"  answered  Louisa,  "for 
the  time  I  have  bestowed  on  French,  for 
I  have  conquered  myself.  I  used  to  shrink, 
you  well  know,  from  the  effort  of  conver- 
sation, and  I  have  often  felt  my  cheeks 
burn  at  the  apprehension  of  a  mistake;  but 
I  never  learned  any  thing  that  has  not  been 
of  use   to  me." 

"Oh,  you  are  always  reasoning,"  said  Ce- 
cilia; "you  began  when  very  young  to  get 
the  start  of  me  in  the  race  of  mind,  though 
thanks  to  brother  Edward's  teaching  and 
these,  (putting  forth  her  pretty  feet,)  I  can 
beat  you  in  the    avenue." 

So  saying,  she  pointed  to  a  distant  tree  as 
a  goal,  and  off  they  flew  like  the  nymphs 
of  Diana.  Cecilia  had,  as  usual,  the  advan- 
tage, when  with  glowing  cheeks   and  flutter- 


18  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

ing   hair  her    sister   reached    the     appointed 
bound. 

"I  have  run  so  fast  I  am  weary,"  said 
Louisa;  "ah,  here  is  Edward  with  the  ba- 
rouche." Edward  was  hailed,  and  she  took 
her  seat  beside  him,  leaving  Cecilia  to  enjoy 
a  botanical  ramble.  Allured  by  her  fascina- 
ting study,  she  wandered  some  distance  on 
the  main  road,  and  was  about  returning, 
when  she  heard  a  violent  crash  among  the 
bushes,  and  saw  a  pair  of  horses  approaching 
at  full  gallop,  drawing  the  shattered  remains 
of  a  traveling  carriage,  to  which  the  driver 
still  clung.  It  immediately  occurred  to  her, 
that  there  must  be  sufferers  by  the  accident, 
perhaps  in  that  vicinity,  and  she  resumed 
her  walk  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
carriage  came,  until  her  attention  was  arrest- 
ed by  groans.  A  few  steps  brought  her  to 
a  female  lying  in  the  road,  whose  dress 
indicated   her   to  be    a  foreigner.     Through 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  jg 

the  agonized  expression  of  her  face,  Cecilia 
immediately  discerned  the  cast  of  refinement 
which  distinguishes  the  educated  and  the 
intellectual.  In  her  efforts  to  rise,  her  trav- 
eling turban  had  fallen  from  her  head,  and 
her  long  dark  hair  was  loosened  from  the 
comb  that  confined  it.  By  the  difficulty 
of  her  movements,  Cecilia  soon  comprehend- 
ed that  one  of  her  limbs  was  fractured,  and 
she  hastened  to  assist  her ;  but  with  an  im- 
patient motion  the  lady  pointed  to  the 
forest,  and  in  the  French  dialect  seemed 
entreating  aid  for  another.  All  that  Cecilia 
could  comprehend  was,  that  some  one  was 
missing.  She  entered  the  woods,  while  the 
lady  gazed  after  her  with  prayerful  eyes. 
Cecilia  could  find  no  one  and  returned  to 
the  sufferer.  The  unfortunate  woman  burst 
into  tears,  attempted  to  rise,  then  poured 
forth  pleadings  of  most  impassioned  and  el- 
oquent  sorrow,    clasping    Cecilia's   hand    in 


20  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

hers,  and  vainly  attempting  to  make  her 
comprehend  the  cause    of  her  agony. 

What  would  Cecilia  have  given  at  this 
moment  for  the  knowledge  of  the  language 
she  had  despised?  With  tearful  eyes  she 
attempted  to  tell  the  stranger  that  she  was 
going  for  assistance.  A  thousand  emotions 
distracted  her ; — to  leave  the  unhappy  lady 
seemed  the  only  alternative,  and  she  turned 
toward  the  avenue. 

The  agony  of  the  traveler  amounted  to 
phrenzy  at  seeing  this,  and  uttering  every 
expression  of  entreaty  of  which  the  French 
language  is  susceptible,  she  still  pointed  to 
the  opposite  woods.  Cecilia  almost  flew 
towards  the  house,  not  daring  to  look  back, 
and  at  every  turn  of  the  avenue,  the  wild 
entreaties  of  the  traveler  burst  on  her  ear, 
and  rent  her  heart.  On  reaching  the  house 
she  found  the  barouche  at  the  door,  and  as 
well   as   her   agitation  would  permit,   related 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  21 

the  accident.  Her  brother  and  sister  sprang 
into  the  carriage  with  her,  and  Edward  drove 
at  full  speed. 

"Oh  Louisa,"  said  Cecilia,  the  tears  stream- 
ing from  her  eyes,  "had  I  understood  her 
language  I  might  have  saved  this  unfortunate 
lady;  now  perhaps  we   may   be   too  late." 

When  they  reached  the  sufferer,  she  had 
fainted,  and  her  face,  on  which  the  lines 
of  distress  were  still  visible,  was  pale  as 
marble.  Edward  took  her  gently  in  his  arms, 
and  lifted  her  to  the  barouche.  She  was 
roused  by  her  pain,  and  struggled  to  disen- 
gage herself. 

"Do  not  take  me  away,"  she  cried  in 
French,  "Eugene  is  in  the  forest;  I  will  die 
with  him." 

Louisa  took  her  hand,  and  in  a  low  voice 
said  to- her  in  the  same  language; — 

"  Dear  Madam,  what  distresses  you  ?  We 
are  friends." 


22  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

A  smile  of  hope  illuminated  the  face  of 
the  stranger  at  these  familiar  accents. 

"  Thank  God,"  she  exclaimed,  pressing 
Louisa's  hand  to  her  heart,  "you  will  find 
my  child.  Our  horses  were  terrified  by  a 
deer  crossing  the  road, — the  carriage  was 
upset,  and  Eugene  and  I  thrown  at  some 
distance  from  each  other.  I  was  so  much 
injured  as  to  be  incapable  of  raising  myself. 
I  called  to  him,  he  turned,  smiling  roguishly, 
but  went  farther.  I  saw  his  little  feet 
tottering  through  the  bushes,  until  he  dis- 
appeared." 

Louisa  translated  her  words  to  Cecilia, 
who  darted,  quick  as  thought,  to  the  wood, 
while  the  lady  was  conveyed  home,  soothed 
by    Louisa's  gentle   and  familiar   language. 

Cecilia  entered  the  forest  with  a  beating 
heart,  and  was  nearly  discouraged,  when 
after  searching  fruitlessly  for  some  time, 
she   saw  white   garments  by  the  road  side. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 


23 


She  approached,  but  almost  started  at  the 
sweet  apparition.  A  beautiful  child  slept 
there;  one  hand  was  thrown  up  amid  his 
clustering  hair,  and  the  other  was  gently 
moved  by  the  motion  of  his  beating  breast, 
while  near  him,  a  coiled  snake,  seemed  pre- 
paring  for    a    spring. 

Though  almost  breathless  with  terror,  Ce- 
cilia preserved  her  self-command.  She  seized 
a  dry  branch,  and  thrashing  the  neighboring 
bushes,  alarmed  the  reptile,  which  rapidly 
glided  away.  The  noise  awoke  the  child ; 
he  raised  his  head  and  brushing  the  curls 
from    his  dark   eyes  called, 

"Maman,  chere  maman!" 

Cecilia  softly  advanced  towards  him.  He 
moved  his  little  lip  in  grief  at  the  coun- 
tenance of  a  stranger. 

"Do  not  be  afraid  of  me,"  said  Cecilia, 
"I    will  carry   you  to  your  mamma." 


24  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

The  child  gazed  at  her  with  increasing 
alarm,  and  hiding  his  face,  began  to  weep 
bitterly.  Cecilia  perplexed  and  agitated  wept 
too,  as  the  boy  pushed  her  from   him. 

Louisa  having  committed  the  stranger  to 
her  mother's  care,  returned  with  Edward 
in  the  barouche,  to  assist  in  the  discovery 
of  the  child.  Her  sister  called  them  as  she 
heard  the  approaching  wheels,  and  they  were 
soon  at  her  side.  The  boy  still  hiding  his 
face  against  a  tree,  refused  to  move.  Lou- 
isa whispered  to  him, — the  child  sprang  to 
her  arms   with   a   laugh  of  joy. 

During  the  slow  recovery  of  the  invalid, 
while  Cecilia  sat  in  silence  ready  to  per- 
form the  kind  offices  which  require  no  words, 
the  stranger  rewarded  her  with  a  languid 
smile;  but  when  Louisa,  though  even  some- 
times inaccurately,  spoke  to  her  in  her  na- 
tive tongue,  her  eyes  were  lit  up  with  j6y 
and   sympathy. 


THE  FRENCH  TRAVELER.      Page  23. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  £5 

"What  book  is  that  you  are  studying  so 
intently  1"  said  Louisa  one  day  to  her  sister. 

"A  new  phrase  book,"  replied  Cecilia, 
blushing,  "  I  am  determined  to  get  one  of 
those  real  smiles  that  Madame  bestows  on 
you ;"  and  turning  to  Eugene  she  said,  "Bais- 
sez  moi  mon  petit"  The  French  boy  did 
not  wait  a  second  bidding,  he  caught  her 
round  the  neck  and  imprinted  a  hearty  kiss 
on  the  lips  of  the  smiling   American. 


3 


26 


WISHES. 

Anna. 
I   wish    I  was  a  small   bird, 
Among  the  leaves  to  dwell, 
To    scale  the  sky  in    gladness 
Or  seek   the  lonely  dell. 
My   matin   song   should   wake   amid 
The    chorus  of  the    earth, 
And   my  vesper  hymn   riug   gladly 
The    trill  of  careless  mirth. 

Ellen. 
I   wish  1  was  a  floweret 
To  blossom  in  the   grove, 
I  'd  spread  my   opening  leaflets 
Among  the  plants  1    love. 
No    hand    would  roughly   cull   me 
As  I    looked   up  to  the    sky, 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  27 

I  silently  should    ope  to  life, 
And  quietly   should  die. 

Mary. 
I    wish  1  was    a   gold-fish 
To   seek   the    sunny   wave, 
To    part  the   gentle   ripple, 
And  amid   its    coolness   lave. 
I   would    glide  alone  delighted 
Amid   the  coral  way, 
And   when  night   came  on  in  softness 
Beneath  the  star-beam  play. 

Mother. 
Hush,    hush,   romantic   prattlers, 
You   know  not  what   you    say, 
When   soul,  the   crown  of  mortals, 
You    would  lightly   throw  away. 
What   is  the  songster's  warble, 
Or  the    floweret's  blush    refin'd, 
To    the  noble   thought  of  Deity 
Within  your  opening  mind  1 


28 


THE  MASKS. 


Lucilla  Armory,  in  her  sixteenth  year,  was 
a  lovely  looking  creature,  flushed  with  youth 
and  beauty,  just  between  the  woman  and  the 
child.  All  hearts  were  taken  by  her  at  a 
glance,  she  was  so  frank,  witty  and  sparkling. 
She  led  the  enjoyments  of  the  young,  and 
enlivened  the  gravity  of  the  old, — was  the 
prime  leader  of  games,  and  could  guess 
conundrums  like  a  sybil  ;  was  apt  at  every 
thing,* — sang  the  last  new  songs,  chattered 
phrases  at  French  stores,  was  admired,  sought, 
and  yet,  alas!  dreaded,  for  Lucilla  was  a 
liar!  I  know  it  is  a  hard  word  to  digest, 
but  call  it  by  what  name  you  will,  whether 
white  lying  or  black  lying, — disguise  it  in  the 
cnot  at  home'  of  the  busy  housewife  or 
lounging  novel  reader,  cover  it  up  with  all  the 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  £9 

shades  that  Mrs.  Opie  can  devise,  still,  like 
her,  we  feel  that  lying  is  lying. 

Lucilla's  mother  had  imbibed  loose  notions 
on  this  subject.  If  her  daughter's  wit  set  a 
circle  in  a  roar  of  laughter,  or  her  prettiness 
fascinated  them,  it  was  enough  for  her. — 
Sometimes  the  idea  of  her  want  of  veracity 
startled  her,  but  she  comforted  herself  by  say- 
ing, "Oh,  Lucilla  is  so  young !  what  can  be 
expected  of  a  girl  of  fifteen !" 

Lucilla  was  always  in  extremes.  It  was 
either  the  coldest  or  the  warmest  day  she 
ever  felt  in  her  whole  life;  a  party  was 
delightful  or  it  was  horrible ;  a  young  gen- 
tleman was  either  exquisitely  charming  or 
a  stupid  thing;  a  young  lady  was  a  beauty 
or   a  fright. 

This  spirit  of  exaggeration,  as  it  is  apt 
to  do  with  females,  extended  to  numbers. 
Every    thing    increased    on    her    lips    like 


30  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

FallstafFs  sixteen  men  in  buckram ;  tens 
were  hundreds,   and  hundreds  thousands. 

Helen  Mortimer   called    on   her   one  day. 

"Why  were  you  not  at  the  Bancroft's 
party  last   night?"  said   Lucilla. 

"I   was  not   invited,"  replied    Helen. 

"Oh,  what  a  pity,"  said  Lucilla,  "we 
had  a  divine  evening.  I  danced  every  time, 
and    was  invited   six   sets  beforehand." 

"Indeed!"  said  Helen,  "I  understood  there 
was  but  one  set  danced  on  account  of  the 
heat  of  the  evening." 

"  Good  Heavens !  Helen,"  said  Lucilla, 
"there  were  at  least  half  a  dozen.  I  wish 
you  had  been  there  to  have  seen  Miss 
Triptoe  from  New  York.  You  know  how 
vulgar  it  is  to  take  steps ;  well,  this  belle 
cut  such  capers  and  leaped  so  high,  that 
I  bowed  and  nodded  to  Miss  Dwindle 
under  her  petticoats  while  she  was  up  in  the 
air." 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WERATH.  $\ 

Helen  cried  out,  "Oh,  Lucilla!" 
"It  is  a  fact,"  said  Lucilla,  "you  may 
ask  any  of  the  girls.  Oh,  by  the  way, 
have  you  seen  Mary  Donald's  comb?  It 
beats  the  South  American  ladies  out  and 
out.  I  declare  to  gracious,  it  is  as  high 
as  Grandmother's  mahogany  backed  chair 
that  was  made  before  the  old  war.  Don't 
shake  your  head,  Helen.  It  was  so  high, 
(measuring  from  the  floor  with  her  hand.) 
They  say  Mary  Donald's  mother  calls  her 
servants  together  and  flogs  them  every  morn- 
ing before  breakfast,  to  keep  them  in  order." 
Helen  colored  deeply,  "Mrs.  Donald  is 
a  relation  of  ours,  Lucilla,"  said  she,  "and 
we  think  her  a  most  estimable  woman.  It 
is  true  that  she  assembles  her  servants  ev- 
ery morning,  but  it  is  to  give  them  an 
opportunity   of  attending   family  worship." 


32  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"Good  powers !"  exclaimed  Lucilla,  who 
would  have  thought  that  you  were  related! 
It  must  have  been   Mrs.    " 

"Stop,"  said  Helen,  "I  will  not  listen  to 
any  more  calumny.  You  know  that  you 
are  slandering,  and  that  such  remarks  often 
fix  a  stain  on  an  individual  which  only 
time  can  wipe   away." 

Lucilla  trotted  her  Toot  in  some  excite- 
ment, and  took  her  turn  to  blush.  As 
Helen  rose  to  go,  she  asked  if  she  had  seen 
her  bell-ropes. 

"No,  they  are  beautiful  indeed,"  said 
Helen ;  "  how  ingeniously  you  have  shaded 
them."  . 

"I  am  glad  you  like  them,"  said  Lucilla, 
"see  how  my  finger  is  marked  with  the 
needle." 

At  that  moment  her  mother  entered. 
"What,  Miss  Helen,"  said  she,  "admiring 
my    worsted   work?       I   tried    to    persuade 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  33 

this  lazy  child  to  help  me,  but  she  would 
not." 

Helen    immediately    took  her   leave. 

Lucilla  was  passing  her  last  quarter  at 
a  school,  and  her  fine  mind  was  rapidly 
opening  under  all  the  advantages  of  edu- 
cation. By  some  unwarrantable  calumny, 
she  had  caused  the  disgrace  of  a  school- 
mate, and  the  indignation  of  her  class  was 
so  great  she  was  glad  to  return  home. 
Towards  twilight,  her  parents  were  absent, 
and  as  it  was  a  sultry  evening,  she  seated 
herself  in  the  piazza. 

Absorbed  in  a  kind  of  reverie,  she  was 
startled  by  the  tread  of  many  feet,  and  lift- 
ing her  eyes  she  saw  a  procession  of  figures 
slowly  enter  the  porch  and  arrange  them- 
selves against  the  balustrade,  with  their  faces 
towards  her.  A  strange  and  horrible  variety 
appeared  in  their  countenances.  Some  look- 
ed   dark   and    sullen,   others    distorted    and 


34  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

malicious;  some  turned  half  aside  with  a 
glance  of  triumph,  and  others  leered  with 
gestures  of  disgusting  familiarity.  The  line 
extended  to  the  extremity  of  the  building, 
gradually  softening  from  ferocity  to  beauty, 
and,  as  her  eyes  recoiling  from  the  nearer, 
bent  to  the  most  distant  objects,  distin- 
guished a  majestic  form  holding  a  torch, 
whose  clear  beautiful  eyes  seemed  to  pen- 
etrate  her  thoughts. 

A  restless  silence  pervaded  her  followers, 
while  the  figure  with  the  torch  approaching 
Lucilla  with  a  firm  and  measured  tread, 
addressed  her   thus, — 

"I  am  Truth.  Alas,  that  I  should  be  a 
stranger  to  one  so  young  and  fair.  These 
are  my  attendants,  and  though  forbidding 
in  aspect  they  perform  my  will.  All  the 
shades  of  falsehood  are  represented  on  these 
faces,  from  the  first  exaggerated  word  to  the 
crime    of    slander.      They    will   follow    you 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  35 

unseen  ;  for  slight  offences  the  least  deformed 
will  become  visible,  but  should  you  injure 
any  one,  expect  to  see  their  avenging  eyes 
peering  into  yours  in  the  domestic  circle 
and   the    sparkling   ball-room." 

As  she  said  these  words,  some  of  the 
vilest  faces  turned  eagerly  towards  her  as 
if  already  claiming   her  as  their  own. 

"Before  we  part,"  said  Truth,  "let  me 
warn  you  that  your  very  exclamations  are 
deceitful.  Whom  do  you  address  when  you 
say  'My  Heavens!  Great  goodness!  Good 
gracious  V  Do  you  invoke  the  Deity  1  You 
shudder  and  say  no.  Beware  then,  how 
you  take  his  name  in  vain,  for  such  lan- 
guage belongs  only   to  him." 

"  Lucilla,"  continued  she,  "  these  are 
masks,  which  terrify  you.  When  you  con- 
form to  Truth  you  will  know  her  followers 
and   see   them  as  you  do    me." 


36  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Lucilla  looked  eagerly  at  her.  Resplend- 
ent indeed  was  Truth.  Her  torch,  whose 
clear  and  steady  beam  was  colored  with 
variegated  rays,  threw  a  glory  over  her  form, 
and  seemed  to  light  the  way  through  her 
serene  eyes  to  her  very  soul.  A  veil  was 
thrown  over  her  graceful  limbs,  revealing 
with  modesty  their  fine  proportions.  Not  an 
ornament  was  on  her  person,  but  there  she 
stood  glorious  in  simple  beauty. 

"Authority,  with  grace 
Of  awfulness,  was  in  her  face." 

Intently  gazing  on  Lucilla  she  remained 
awhile  silent,  then  turning  to  the  fantastic 
procession    she  said, — 

"  Ye  know  my  signals.  Calumnia,  I  wave 
my  torch  thrice  and  again  for  thee ;  De- 
ceptia,  thrice  for  thee;  Exaggeratia,  twice 
for  thee;  Flatterania,  one  flash  for  thee; 
disappear." 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  37 

A  momentary  rush  was  heard,  and  Lu- 
cilla  sat  alone. 

Lucilla  retired  to  rest  that  night  with  a 
disturbed  conscience  ;  there  was  a  dread  at 
her  heart  that  made  her  cling  to  her  young 
sister,  who  slept  with  her,  for  companion- 
ship. 

"I  will  be  very  careful  of  my  words 
and  conduct,"  thought  she,  but  she  did  not 
pray,  nor  look  to  the  "  Rock  of  ages"  for 
aid. 

She  slept,  and  forgot  her  resolutions ;  for- 
got the  God  who  never  sleeps.  The  sun 
rose  bright  and  lovely,  but  no  beam  of 
thankfulness  dwelt  in  her  heart;  her  form 
moved  in  strength  and  beauty,  but  no  grati- 
tude breathed  from  her  lips.  Sleep  was 
to  her  like  night  on  a  flower;  it  tinged 
her  cheek  and  enlivened  her  eye,  but  noth- 
ing more.  Oh  how  dreadful  is  the  sleep  of 
the   soul !     The  bird  may  spring  aloft  with 


33  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

its  matin  song,  thoughtless  of  its  powers ; 
the  leaf  may  lay  open  to  the  sun  uncon- 
scious who  colors  it  with  emerald  beauty ; 
the  stream  may  glide  in  soft  meanderings, 
ignorant  of  Him  who  bids  it  rise  in  the 
mountains  and  rush  to  the  sea;  but  shall 
they  whose  young  minds  are  fresh  from  the 
Creator,  whose  first  leaf  of  sin  is  almost 
unwritten,  whose  souls  are  capable  of  celes- 
tial sympathy, — shall  they  rise  from  sleep 
untouched  by  the  thought  of  a  protecting 
Deity  \ 

Lucilla  repaired  as  usual  to  the  academy, 
and  by  her  application  gained  the  praise  of 
her  teachers.  When  the  young  ladies  re- 
tired at  the  customary  hour  of  recess,  she 
was  attracted  by  a  bead  bag  which  one  of 
her  school-mates  was  embroidering.  It  was 
a  libel  on  taste ;  the  sheep  were  as  tall  as 
the  men,  a  water-fall  stood  as  still  as  if 
the  earth's   attraction  was  suspended,  and  a 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  39 

shepherdess  held  something  which  might 
have  been  called  a  hominy  stick  as  well 
as  a  crook. 

"My  dear  Sarah,"  said  Lucilla,  "what 
a  pretty  idea !  where  did  you  get  that  pat- 
tern? Do  draw  it  for  me.  I  declare  I 
shall   not  rest  until — " 

Before  she  could  conclude  her  sentence 
a  flash  of  light  startled  her,  and  on  recov- 
ering from  the  glare  she  saw  the  face  of 
Flatterania  over  Sarah's  shoulder.  Her  head 
was  fantastically  ornamented  with  feathers. 
She  held  a  fan,  with  a  simper,  to  her  lips, 
and  nodded  and  beckoned  to  Lucilla  with 
an   air  of  familiarity. 

Lucilla  felt  faint  at  this  recognition,  and 
suddenly  returning  to  her  desk  pursued  her 
studies  in  silence. 

Lucilla  was  entertaining  her  friends  one 
afternoon  with  an  account  of  her  father's 
sumptuous  style  of  living. 


40  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"  We  always  have  three  courses,  and  in- 
variably ice  cream,"  said  she,  and  busily 
talking  perceived  not  two  flashes  of  light 
that  played  through  the  apartment.  "  What 
allowance  of  spending  money  do  you  have 
Araballa!"  continued  she,  to  one  of  the 
girls. 

"  Twelve  and  a  half  cents  a  week,"  was 
the   answer. 

"Mercy!  how  little,"  said  Lucilla,  "my 
father  gives   me  a   dollar." 

Two  soft  flashes  of  light  crossed  her  eyes 
and  revealed  a  figure  which  she  knew  to 
be  Exaggeratia.  £he  held  in  her  hand  a 
magnifying  glass,  and  as  she  glided  with 
rapid  steps  past  Lucilla,  the  frightened  girl 
saw  her  own  features  enlarged  to  an  im- 
mense size.  She  was  hushed  in  a  moment 
and    the    figure   disappeared. 

A  few  days  passed  without  a  visit  from 
her   visionary    rebukers,    until   one    evening 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  41 

Lucilla  was  desirous  of  wearing  a  ribbon- 
belt  to  a  party,  to  which  her  mother  had 
objected.  She  dressed  herself  according  to 
her  mother's  wishes,  but  after  bidding  her 
good-bye,  ran  up  stairs  softly  to  her  drawer, 
and  taking  the  forbidden  belt,  hastily  fastened 
it  around  her  waist.  Three  flashes  of  light 
illuminated  the  room  and  a  female  figure 
appeared,  in  whose  countenance  two  faces 
seemed  joined   together. 

The  two  mouths  spoke  together,  "De- 
ceptia,  Miss,  at  your  service.  Have  you 
any    commands  ?" 

Lucilla  threw  down  the  belt  in  terror, 
and  wore  the  sash  directed   by  her  mother. 

Several  articles  had  from  time  to  time 
been  missed  from  Mr.  Armory's  premises, 
and  suspicion  fell  on  the  house  servant,  Amos, 
who  was  familiar  with   the  establishment. 

The*  apprehensions  of  the  family  were 
again  excited  by  the  loss  of  some  silver  spoons, 

4 


42  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Lucilla's  lively  imagination  fixed  at  once  on 
Amos  as  the  thief,  and  from  talking  about 
it  unhesitatingly,  she  began  to  believe  that 
it  was  actually  the  case.  Her  assertions 
were  so  positive,  that  Amos  was  regarded 
with  distrust  and  aversion.  Her  father  ques- 
tioned her  on  the  subject  and  said  seriously, 

"Lucilla  have  you  reason  to  believe  that 
Amos  is  a  thief?" 

"Certainly,  sir.  Do  you  not  remember 
the  umbrella,  the  walking  stick?"  and  she 
went  on  enumerating  other  abstracted  articles. 

"But  that  is  not  to  the  point,  my  dear," 
said  he ;  "  have  you  ever  seen  Amos  take 
what  does  not  belong  to  him?" 

Oh,  why  did  not  Calumnia  appear  at 
this   fatal  moment? 

Lucilla  hesitated,  but  her  foolish  and  wick- 
ed love  of  excitement  was  too  strong,  and 
she  replied, 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH,  43 

"Yes,  father,  very  often;  but  I  did  not 
like   to  tell  you  about  it." 

Amos  was  instantly  summoned  and  com- 
mitted to   the  work  house. 

Lucilla  had  not  calculated  on  this,  for  her 
feelings  were  tender  and  she  could  not  bear 
to   have   any  one  suffer. 

She  burst  into  tears  and  plead  for  the 
release  of  Amos  with  all  the  eloquence  in 
her  power.  She  even  suggested  the  idea  of 
his  innocence ;  but  Mr.  Armory,  knowing 
her  habit  of  prevarication,  thought  she  spoke 
only  from  impulse,  and  would  not  heed  her. 

The  grandmother  of  Amos  had  been  a 
nurse  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Armory  for  many 
years,  until  her  intellect  became  disordered 
in  her  old  age;  but  though  her  usefulness 
was  gone,  the  strong  ties  of  child's  nurse 
united  her  to  the  family.  The  affectionate 
name  of  maumer  still  arrested  her  attention 
when  other   objects   were  slighted. 


44  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Maum  Hagar  was  nearly  seventy  years  old  ; 
tall,  erect,  with  eyes  full  of  that  strange  light 
that  beams  out  from  a  disordered  intellect,  like 
phosphorescence  from  animal  decay.  Some- 
times she  closed  the  shutters  of  her  apart- 
ment and  addressed  "the  spirits"  through 
small  crevices  where  the  light  entered.  Some- 
times she  sat  for  hours  on  a  bench  in  the 
sun,  with  her  hands  clasped,  reeling  to  and 
fro,  singing  psalms.  But  maum  Hagar's 
delight  was  her  church.  A  nice  wrapper,  a 
white  handkerchief  crossed  over  her  bosom, 
an  apron  pinned  on  without  injuring  one  of 
its  starched  folds,  with  a  check  turban  care- 
fully tied  over  her  gray  hairs,  formed  her 
Sunday  toilet.  Slighting  the  seats  in  the 
gallery,  her  favorite  one  was  in  the  porch 
of  the  broad  aisle,  where,  sitting  a  little  for- 
ward on  a  bench  in  the  rear  of  the  first 
pew,  she  could  see  the  preacher.  When  a 
hymn  was  commenced,  she  rose,  clasped  her 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  45 

hands,  and  inclined  her  body  forward;  at 
the  end  of  every  verse  she  courtesied,  bending 
lower  and  lower,  until  the  close.  Some- 
times, particularly  at  the  .dismissal  hymn,  she 
advanced  with  a  measured  step  up  the  aisle, 
gently  waving  her  clasped  hands,  and  courte- 
sying,  until  led  back  by  an  observing  friend. 

Lucilla  was  a  favorite  of  maum  Hagar's, 
and  possessed  more  control  over  her  than  any 
other  person.  For  some  days  after  being 
informed  of  her  grandson's  disgrace,  her 
passions  were  unusually  roused,  and  Lucilla 
was  sent  for  to  soothe  her.  The  wretched 
girl  herself  needed  consolation,  for  conscience 
began  to  be  busy.  She  went,  however,  to 
Hagar's  room,  and  found  her  in  the  attitude 
of  listening. 

"Hush!"  said  she,  "don't  you  hear  them 
lashing  my  boy]"  Then  counting  on  her 
fingers,  "  one,  two,  three,  four." 

Lucilla  wept  bitterly. 


46  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"Are  you  so  sorry,"  said  Hagar,  "for  a 
thief?  Amos  an't  sorry  for  the  old  woman's 
gray  hairs  ;"  and,  pushing  aside  her  cap,  she 
showed  the  crisp  white  curls  that  edged  her 
forehead. 

At  this  moment  Amos  entered,  after  his 
punishment.  He  threw  himself  on  a  bench, 
with  his  head  on  his  knees,  and  groaned 
bitterly. 

"Thief!  thief!"  screamed  the  old  woman. 

"  I  swear  to  heaven  I'm  not  a  thief,  grand- 
ma," said  the  poor  fellow. 

A  servant  suddenly  rushed  in  and  informed 
them  that  the  real  culprit  had  been  discovered, 
and  that  Amos  was  innocent. 

A  wild  scream  of  joy  burst  from  Hagar  at 
this  intelligence,  and  aiming  to  spring  towards 
her  grandson  with  extended  arms,  she  fell. 
The  chords  of  life  were  broken, — old  Hagar 
was  dead. 


51 


KEEPING  THE  SABBATH  HOLY. 

Maria  and  her  Mother. 

Maria. — Mamma,  why  do  you  make  me 
keep  so  quiet  on  Sundays?  I  can  neither 
have  my  amusements  at  home,  nor  go  any 
where  to  play  with  my  acquaintances. 
Papa  requires  me  to  read  the  chapter  that 
the  minister  preaches  from  morning  and 
afternoon,  and  as  if  that  were  not  enough, 
I   have  to  go  to  Sunday   School. 

I  cannot  see  why  I  should  be  confined 
in  this  way,  and  why  I  am  not  permitted 
to  be  as  happy  as  some  children  I  know, 
who  are  not  bothered  about  reading  chap- 
ters, reciting  hymns,  going  to  Sunday  School? 
and  such   things. 


52  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Mother. — I  am  sorry,  my  daughter,  that 
you  think  us  unreasonable,  but  I  wish  you 
to  listen  attentively  to  my  answer  to  your 
complaints. 

The  first  and  strongest  reason  why  you 
should  keep  the  Sabbath  day  holy,  and 
different  from  other  days  is,  because  God 
has  required  it.  Suppose  a  great  king, 
living  many  miles  off,  were  to  send  you 
every  week  a  beautiful  present  of  toys, 
which  should  delight  and  amuse  you,  and 
at  the  same  time  say  to  you,  you  may 
play  with  these  toys  every  day  in  the  week 
but  one,  and  the  reason  is  this,  if  you  are 
every  day  occupied  with  them,  you  will- 
either  become  weary  and  not  enjoy  them, 
or  if  you  are  interested  all  the  time  in  them, 
you  will  think  so  much  of  your  toys  as  to 
forget   me,  the  giver. 

Do  you  think  that  princely  friend  would 
ask  too   much,  when   he  requested    you    to 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  53 

lay  aside  the  toys  for  one  day  in  seven? 
God  gives  you  every  thing  which  you  enjoy. 
He  is  your  unseen  friend.  Will  you  not 
devote  one  day  to  Him? 

The  second  reason  why  your  parents  try 
to  fill  your  mind  with  serious,  but  not  sad, 
occupations,  on  the  Sabbath  is,  that  you 
may  gain  religious  habits.  You  will  know 
how  to  worship  God.  And  suppose  you 
die  in  youth;  how  happy  will  you  be  that 
you  have  not  been  a  stranger  to  Him. 
You  may  live,  though,  my  dear  child,  to  be 
older  than  your  parents  now  are,  and  I 
cannot  describe  to  you  what  serenity  and 
peace  an  acquaintance  with  God  gives. 

My  own  mother  suffered  many  months 
from  a  disease  that  confined  her  to  her  bed. 
In  the  depth  of  the  night  I  have  often 
heard  a  sweet  strain  of  music  rising  from 
her  lonely  chamber.  When  I  went  to  en- 
quire into   her  wants,  I  perceived  that  she 


54  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

was  singing  the  hymns  she  had  learned  in 
childhood,  and  she  said  they  comforted  her 
heart.  I  have  listened  to  many  songs  which 
the  world  call  great,  but  never  heard  any 
so  sweet  and  touching  as  those  midnight 
hymns.  And  well  do  I  remember,  how 
your  sister  Louisa  sat  by  her  grandmother's 
bedside.  Leaving  her  plays  and  toys  to  sooth 
the  sufferer,  she  sang  in  lisping  words,  learnt 
in   her  Sabbath   lessons, 

"  Hush   my  dear,  lie   still  and   slumber, 
Holy   angels    guard   your  bed ;"  &c. 

While  she  sang,  the  invalid  would  stop  her 
low  moaning,  while  her  thin  fingers  kept 
time  on  the  coverlid,  and  thus  fall  asleep. 
Endeavor  then,  my  dear  child,  cheerfully 
to  attend  to  your  Sabbath  exercises,  for  you 
too  may  comfort  a  dying  friend,  or  sooth 
your  own  bed  of  pain. 


55 


CALL  TO  SABBATH  SCHOOL. 

Wake,  sister,   wake,   'tis   a   holy  day, 

We  must  not  linger  here ; 
The  birds  are  up  and  have  soared  away, 

And  are   singing   their   anthems  clear. 

Young  flowers  have  open'd  their  lovely  eyes, 
And   their  rich   perfume  have  given ; 

And  they  fix  their  looks  on  the  distant  skies, 
As  if  they  knew  something  of  Heaven. 

We  will  go  the  house  of  praise  and  prayer, 

The   altar   of  youthful   love; 
And   Jesus   in   spirit  will  meet  us  there, 

And  bear  our  ofPring  above. 

Then  wake,  sister,  wake,  'tis  a  happy  day; 

Perchance  from  his   blessed  throng, 
Some  youthful  seraph   has  wing'd   his  way, 

To  join  in   our  Sabbath  song. 


56 


TINYTELLA. 


A  FAIRY    TALE 


Alice  Somers,  the  daughter  of  a  Caro- 
linian, was  an  interesting  girl,  beloved  by 
watchful  and  affectionate  parents.  She  was 
perfectly  obedient  and  very  useful.  No  one 
was  more  just  than  Alice  in  distributing 
from  the  store-room,  or  more  adroit  in  the 
mysteries  of  the  pantry.  The  servants  knew 
they  could  gain  nothing  by  coaxing,  though 
their  young  mistress  was  ready  to  aid  and 
advise  them  of  her  own  free  will.  Already, 
with  ingenuity  beyond  her  years,  she  could 
cut  clothes  for  her  dolls,  and  her  needle 
was  a  welcome  sight  among  her  young  ac- 
quaintance. She  had  but  one  fault ;  that, 
alas!   was  a  great  one.     She  could  not  look 


THE  ROSEBUD  WREATH.  57 

cheerful  unless  she  had  her  own  way.  It 
is  true  she  performed  her  duties  faithfully ;  but 
her  bright  eyes  were  often  clouded,  and  not  a 
smile  hovered  on  her  lips. 

One  day,  when  Alice  was  gaily  talking 
over  a  plate  of  nuts,  her  mother  requested 
her  assistance  in  sewing.  She  of  course 
complied,  but  a  frown  gathered  on  her  brow. 
She  took  her  work  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  and  commenced  sewing  as  if  life  de- 
pended on  every  stitch.  Mrs.  Somers  began 
to  converse,  Alice  was  silent;  she  related 
a  laughable  anecdote,  not  a  smile  illuminated 
her  daughter's  countenance;  she  asked  her 
questions,  monosyllables  were  the  only  reply. 
Tired  of  this  uncivil  intercourse,  Mrs.  Som- 
ers withdrew  to  another  apartment.  Alice 
sewed  on  with  a  fece  elongated  beyond  all 
prettiness;  in  other  words,  she  was  sulky. 

Sitting  in  this  uncomfortable  state  of  mind, 
she  felt  gradually  a  singular  sensation  on  her 

5 


53  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

chin,  and  on  passing  her  hand  over  it,  it  ap- 
peared longer  than  usual.  She  resumed  her 
work,  trying  to  look  unhappy,  but  her  chin 
attracted  her  attention,  for  it  was  certainly 
lengthening.  She  dropped  her  work,  and 
felt  it  with  both  hands,  it  pushed  itself  be- 
tween them;  she  tried  to  rise,  it  was  im- 
possible ;  she  attempted  to  call  her  mother, 
her  voice  seemed  chained ;  her  chin  in- 
creased every  moment,  until  at  length  she 
saw  it.  What  a  moment  of  horror,  a  horror 
increased  by  the  idea  that  this  was  a  pun- 
ishment for  ill-nature !  In  dreadful  alarm 
and  perplexity   she  gazed  wildly   around. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  soft  fluttering, 
with  delicate  tinklings  like  musical  wings, 
and,  gliding  on  a  sunbeam,  appeared  a  mi- 
nute female  figure,  which  floated  before  her. 
Her  form  was  chaste  and  symmetrical  as 
the  column  of  a  sea-shell,  her  drapery  was 
woven    from    humming-birds'  plumage,    and 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  59 

dazzled  the  eyes  of  Alice,  until  they  rested 
on  her  tiny  face,  fair  as  a  clematis's  blossom 
peeping  from  its  robe  of  green.  At  every 
motion  of  her  wings,  a  thousand  little  bells, 
musically  tuned,  rang  out  a  sweet  melody, 
while  her  feet,  white  and  noiseless  as  the 
falling  petal  of  a  bay-flower,  kept  time  in 
graceful  transitions  to  their  soft  harmony. 

The  music  ceased,  and  a  voice  still  sweeter, 
though  piercing  as  the  cicada  at  summer's 
noon,  addressed  poor  Alice. 

"I  am  Tinytella,"  it  said,  "the  friend  of 
youth.  I  know  your  misfortune  and  its  cause. 
There  is  but  one  cure, — the  feeling  and  smile 
of  good-humor," 

Her  bright  blue  eyes  looked  full  in  Alice's 
face,  her  little  mouth  dimpling  like  the  water 
in  a  rose  vase  when  it  receives  flowers.  Alice 
smiled.  Instantly  the  frightful  deformity  dis- 
appeared, and  she  heard  the  bells  of  Tinytella 
tinkling  on  the  distant  air. 


60 


NOT  READY  FOR  SCHOOL. 

Oh !    where  is  my  hat — it  is  taken  away, 
And   my   shoe-strings  are  all  in  a   knot! 

I  can't  find  a  thing  where  it  should  be  to  day, 
Though   Fve  hunted  in  every  spot. 

My   slate  and  my   pencil  no   where  can  be 
found, 
Though  I  placed  them  as  safe  as  can  be; 
While  my  books  and  my  maps  are  all  scat- 
tered  around, 
And   bop   about  just  like  a   flee. 

Do,  Rachel,  just  look  for  my  atlas  up  stairs, 
My  ^Esop  is  somewhere  there  too ; 

And  sister,  just  brush  down  these  troublesome 
hairs, 
And  mother  just  fasten  my  shoe. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  Q\ 

And  sister,  beg  father  to  write  an  excuse, 
But  stop,  he  will  only   say  "no;" 

And  go  on   with  a  smile  and  keep  reading 
the  news, 
While   every  thing  bothers  me  so. 

My  satchel  is  heavy  and  ready  to   fall, 
This    old   pop-gun  is   breaking   my  map ; 

I'll  have    nothing  to    do    with   the  pop-gun 
or  ball, 
There's  no  playing  for  such  a  poor  chap. 

The  town  clock  will  strike   in   a  minute,   I 
fear, 
Then  away   to   the  foot  I  must  sink  ; 
There — look  at  my  Carpenter  tumbled  down 
here, 
And  my  Worcester  covered  with  ink. 

I  wish  I'd  not  lingered  at  breakfast  the  last, 
Though  the  toast  and  the  butter  were  fine; 


Q2  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

I  think  that  our  Edward  must  eat  pretty  fast, 
To  be  off  when  I  haven't  done  mine. 

Now  Edward  and  Harry  protest  they  won't 
wait, 
And  beat  on  the  door  with  their  sticks ; 
I  suppose  they  will  say  1  was  dressing  too 
late ; 
To  morrow,  Til   he   up  at  six. 


"^"V'W'W-W'VW^ 


63 


THE  PLANTER'S  SON. 


If  we  do   not   control  our   language,  we   shall   not 
control  our  conduct. 


"Where  is  that  rascal  with  my  horse?" 
said  William  Ashley  to  his  brother  Henry, 
as   they   were   preparing  to  ride. 

"Him  de  comin,  Mass  Billy,"  answered 
a  negro  boy,  leading  along  the  animal,  and 
grinning  as  if  a  compliment  had  been  paid 
him. 

"So,  there  now,"  said  William,  "clear 
yourself,  and  if  you  are  not  standing  here 
ready  when  I  return,  I'll  have  your  ears  cut 
as   clean  as  a  Coutre's   back,  you  dog." 

The  lads  mounted  on  their  saddles,  and 
Jim,  with  a  most  unawed  shout,  sprang  off 
on    two,    hands    and    one    foot,    the    other 


g4  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

kicked   up   behind   in    the   air,    and    cutting 
a  somerset  in   the  avenue,  disappeared. 

Mr.  Ashley  was  reading  at  the  window, 
concealed  by  a  Cherokee  rose  vine  from  his 
son's  view,  when   this   dialogue   took  place. 

"  William,  William,"  he  exclaimed,  "where 
did  you  learn  such  ungentlemanly  language  \n 

William  did  not  reply,  but  played  a  tattoo 
on  the  horse's   ribs  with  his   heel. 

"Go,  my  boy,"  said  his  father,  "take 
your  ride;  but  remember,  that  some  regard 
is  due  to  all  God's  creatures ;  and  that  if 
you  do  not  control  your  language,  you  will 
not  control  your  conduct." 

William  and  Henry  rode  off  slowly. 
"Jim  does  not  mind  my  jokes,"  said  he, 
carelessly. 

William  Ashley  was  a  well  educated  boy, 
and  possessed  a  fine  disposition,  though 
slightly  injured  by  the  early  exercise  of 
authority.      His    manners    with   his    equals 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  (35 

were  graceful  and  refined ;  and  many  a 
mother  who  had  been  led  from  her  drawing- 
room  to  the  carriage  by  the  manly  youth, 
had  praised  his  grace  and  gallantry.  Full 
of  active  happiness,  he  was  a  decided  favorite 
on  the  plantation.  In  the  school  holidays 
his  jacket  pockets  were  stuffed  with  twine, 
pipes,  and  gingerbread  for  the  young  negroes, 
and  he  was  sure  to  be  at  his  mother's 
elbow  in  the  store-room,  to  dispense  tobacco, 
fish,  &c,  to  the  old.  They,  in  turn,  gave 
him  eggs,  sweet  potatoes,  and  chinquapens. 
William  soon  forgot  his  little  offence  in 
the  charms  of  his  ride.  Not  lonely  to  the 
lads  was  the  deep  and  solemn  sound  of 
the  waving  forest ;  they  had  known  the 
trees  from  infancy,  they  were  their  birth- 
right; they  fancied  they  almost  knew  the 
birds,  as  from  season  to  season,  in  each 
school  recess,  they  poured  out  for  them  their 
lovely   songs. 


55  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  a  balmy  spring; 
as  the  laborers  were  sauntering  homewards 
from  their  finished  tasks,  they  gave  the 
passing  benediction  to  the.  boys  which  has 
so  much  of  patriarchal  simplicity  among 
the  elders.  Arriving  at  home,  they  found 
Jim  seated  in  the  piazza,  braiding  a  straw 
basket   to   sell   to   his   mistress,  and  singing, 

"  You  say  bro'   rabbit   ben    dere," 

for  a  group  of  little  children,  who  were 
playing,   half    dressed,    on   the   lawn   below. 

"Come  here,  Jim,"  said  William,  "take 
my   horse  to   Sam." 

Jim  either  did  not  or  affected  not  to 
hear. 

"Jim,  I  say,"  roared  out  William,  "take 
the  horse    to  the   stable." 

Jim  kept  at  his  work,  grumbling,  '■  **He 
no  finish  em  dis  week,  if  he  no  been  do 
'em  now." 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 


67 


William's  little  stock  of  patience  was 
exhausted ;  his  face  became  flushed  with 
passion.  He  advanced  towards  Jim  with 
the  end  of  the  whip  handle  raised,  and 
shook  it  furiously.  Henry  sprang  forward 
to  check  his  brother,  but  before  he  could 
speak,  he  received  a  blow  from  the  whip 
on  his  temple,  and  fell  on  the  piazza  in- 
sensible, the  blood  streaming  from  the  wound. 

William  screamed  with  terror,  and  threw 
himself  beside  his  fainting  brother ;  as  he 
gazed  on  the  deadly  paleness  that  was 
spread  over  his  fine  features,  he  longed  for 
one  glance  from  those  blue  eyes  that  always 
beamed  with  affection  for  him ;  he  raised 
the  hand  that  was  wont  to  join  him  in  his 
youthful  sports,  and  it  fell  heavily  by  his 
side. 

"Look  up,  look  up  my  brother,"  he  cried, 
in  deep  anguish,  "or  "my  heart  will  break. 
T  did  not   mean  to   hurt   you  or  any   body. 


68  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

I  wanted  to  frighten  Jim.  Have  mercy, 
Heaven!     What  can  I  do  for  my  brother!" 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ashley 
appeared.  They  raised  Henry  from  the 
floor,  and  bore  him  to  a  sofa ;  he  was  still 
senseless.  William  knelt  down  beside  him, 
or  walked   about  the   room   in   despair. 

"Mother,  I  have  killed  him,"  he  cried, 
wringing  his  hands;  "oh  that  I  could  lie 
down  in  the   grave   and  die   for  him." 

Mr.  Ashley,  with  sadness  but  composure, 
opened  a  vein  in  Henry's  arm,  while  his 
mother  administered  other  restoratives.  It 
was  long  before  he  recovered.  At  length 
he  opened  his  eyes  languidly,  and  held  out 
his  hand  to  his  brother,  who  stood  sobbing 
beside   him  like  an  infant. 

"He  lives,  he  lives!"  exclaimed  William. 
"God  forgive  me  for  my  wickedness."  He 
threw  his  arms   around    Henry,  and  a  reso- 


THE  PLANTER'S  SON.  Page  67 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  (39 

lution  never  again  to  yield  to  his  temper, 
went  up  with  a  prayer  from  his  youthful 
heart. 

Jim  was  sadly  perplexed.  He  stood  bal- 
ancing himself  first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the 
other,  with  his  eyes  as  large  as  saucers, 
twirling  his  basket.  At  length,  with  a 
shuffling  step  until  he  reached  William,  he 
said,  in    a   low  voice, 

"Nudder  time  me  gwine  to  fetch  Mass 
Billy   horse." 


70 


THE  YOUNGEST  ONE. 


I  saw  a   mother  with   her   child, 

And   each   with  each  appeared  beguil'd ; 

So   tenderly   they   spake  and   smiPd, 

I   knew   it   was  her  youngest   one. 

She  lean'd  upon  her   mother's   knee, 
With   look  half  tender  and  half  free, 
And   oh,  by   that  sweet   liberty, 

I   knew  it  was  her  youngest  one. 

A  whisper  qame  with   love   o'er  fraught, 
Soon  was   returned  the  whisper'd   thought, 
As  though  in  this  wide  world  were  nought 
But  she,  and  her  dear  youngest  one. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  j\ 

"  Mother,"   she  said,    "  you   must  not   go, 
And  leave   your  little  girl,  you   know, 
Because  no   other  loves  you   so, 

Like  me,  your  darling  youngest  one." 

I  heard  a  promise  and  a  kiss, 
I  saw  a  smile  of  trusting  bliss, 
Oh,    naught   can  sever,    after  this, 

The  mother   and   her   youngest   one. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  BUTTERFLIES. 

I  was  never  disturbed  in  my  calm  retreat 
upon  a  green  leaf,  until  one  evening  a  little 
boy  carried  me  away.  I  thought  at  first 
he  intended  to  destroy  me,  but  I  soon  per- 
ceived that  he  did  not.  The  only  thing 
I  could  boast  of  was  a  handsome  coat,  for 
people  say  that  we  worms  are  not  always 
mild  tempered.  The  boy  mounted  a  curious 
looking  animal.  I  felt  every  moment  as  if 
I  should  fall,  but  luckily  for  myself  I  did 
not.  As  soon  as  he  got  home  he  showed 
me  to  his  sister,  who  had  collected  several 
of  my  species.  I  was  carried  into  a  small 
room  with  a  window  in  it,  and  placed  in 
a  box  half  filled  with  leaves ;  they  then  left 
me.     I  did  not  try  to   escape,  as  I  thought 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  73 

I  should  be  well  taken  care  of.  The  next 
morning  I  had  fresh  leaves  given  me,  and 
heard  my  little  master  and  mistress  talking 
about  me.  There  were  a  great  many  other 
worms,  but  of  much  inferior  rank  to  myself, 
and  I  soon  found  I  was  in  the  hands  of 
young  naturalists,  of  whom  I  had  often 
heard  my  elder  brothers   speak. 

I  felt  that  I  was  near  my  chrysalis  state, 
and  that  I  must  suspend  myself  in  the  air 
by  silken  threads.  My  master  came  to  see 
me,  and  brought  with  him  another  young 
person;  they  appeared  delighted  to  observe 
that  I  had  suspended  myself,  and  said  they 
wished  to  see  me  change  my  skin,  but 
being  weared  with  waiting,  left  me.  They 
soon  returned  and  were  surprised  to  find 
me  a  chrysalis,  and  I  heard  their  exclama- 
tions, as  my  new  colors  appeared.  My 
mistress  pinched  me  gently,  to  be  convinced 
that  I  was  alive,  but  I  was  wise  enough  not 

6 


74  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

to  stir,  and  suppressed  my  feelings.  One 
August  morning  I  burst  the  case  that  en- 
veloped me,  and  appeared  in  all  the  gay 
colors  of  the  butterfly.  I  must  confess  that 
I  viewed  myself  with  great  complacency. 
I  was  at  liberty  to  soar  round  the  small 
room  for  an  hour,  and  at  the  end  of  that 
time  saw  my  mistress  come  up  stairs  with 
some  coarse  gauze  under  her  arm.  She 
put  me  between  two  shelves,  and  nailed 
the  gauze  over  them,  so  that  I  could  not 
escape.  She  then  brought  in  another  but- 
terfly, who,  though  not  as  handsome  as 
myself,  I  condescended  to  welcome  with 
courteous   dignity. 

While  we  were  discoursing  on  the  fleeting 
nature  of  butterfly  life,  we  saw  a  butterfly 
elopement.  My  mistress,  after  confining  us, 
had  raised  the  window-sash  to  purify  the 
air,  and  gone  below.  Suddenly  we  heard 
a  sound,  which   only   ourselves    could   have 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  75 

detected,  on  either  side  of  the  room.  It 
came  to  us,  however,  like  the  crack  of  a 
pistol ;  peeping  through  the  gauze  we  saw 
a  butterfly  rise  up,  one  on  our  right,  and 
another  on  our  left,  and  leave  their  dark 
shell  behind.  At  first  they  fluttered,  then 
ascended  feebly,  then  gaining  strength  as  the 
breeze  blew  on  them,  mounted  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  apartment.  Here  they  seemed 
to  hold  a  momentary  consultation,  and  then 
darting  through  the  window  together,  disap- 
peared. 

But  my  strength  is  failing.     I  faint — I  die. 


76 


MORNING  HYMN. 

This  is  earth's   waking  hour, 

And  beautiful  to   see; 
The  sun  beams  put  with  glorious  -power, 

And  kindling  majesty. 

Oh,   what  have   I   to   do 

With  slothful   visions   now? 
Let  me  my  early  prayers   renew 

With  bright  and  happy  brow. 

For   God  has   bless'd  my  night, 
And  nerved  my  youthful  frame, 

And   I  will  seek  him  with   delight 
Through  Jesus'  blessed  name. 


77 


HOMESICKNESS. 


The  morning  sun  shines  brightly, 
But  it  shineth  not   for  me; 

The  breeze   is   blowing   lightly, 
But   my   spirit  is   not  free. 

There's   many  a  hand  to   meet  me, 
But  mine  is   sadly  given; 

I  thank  the  friends  who  greet  me, 
But  my  heart  is  chill'd  and  riven, 

My   former   home   was  lowly, 
And   this  is  rich  and  rare, 

But   to   me  'tis   melancholy, 
And  that  was  bright  and  fair. 

I   know  here  is   much   smiling, 
And  graceful,   easy  mirth, 


73  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

And  ways  of  kind   beguiling, 
And  words  of  gentle   birth; 

And  I   try  to    check   my   sadness, 
And  look  as  bright  as   they, 

And    call  a  fitful  gladness 
To   wile  the  long,  long  day. 

I  sometimes  think  'twould  cheer  me 
To  taste  one  little  draught 

Of  the   streamlet  that  ran  near   me, 
Which  in  infancy  I  quaffed. 

If  I  could  but  see  my   mother, 
And  press   her  cheek  to   mine, 

Or  take  my  darling  brother, 
His   flaxen  hair  to  twine. 

If  e'en  my  loving  dog  were   here 
To  eat  from  out  my  hand, 

I  think  I  should   not  shed   a  tear 
Amid  this  stranger-band. 


79 


THE  WAGON  BOY. 

One  clear  wintry  Saturday,  Richard  Ed- 
wards accompanied  his  father  on  a  hunting 
excursion.  They  were  unsuccessful,  but 
comforted  themselves  with  the  jokes  which 
good  natured  sportsmen  make  on  each  other, 
when  they  return  from  the  chase  empty 
handed.  They  were  a  mile  from  any  hab- 
itation, and  had  taken  a  short  Gut  through 
the  woods,  when  Richard  called* — 

"  Stop,  father  ;  I  hear  sounds  of  distress." 

Mr.  Edwards  reined  in  his  horse  and  lis- 
tened. 

"  I  perceive  nothing,"  said  he,  "  but  the 
forest  birds  that  gather  at  night-fall.  But 
hark !  so,  Fido,  down  boy,"  continued  he 
to  a  hound  which  was  leaping  up  at  his  side. 


30  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

A  wild  but  childlike  sob  of  agony  burst 
distinctly  on  their  ears. 

"We  must  look  into  this,  Richard,"  said 
his  father,  and  starting  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound,  he  was  followed  by  his  son. 

As  they  rode  over  the  uncleared  space, 
they  heard  at  intervals  the  same  cry,  and  they 
were  soon  near  enough  to  perceive  the  object 
of  their  search.  In  one  of  the  turn-outs 
made  through  the  woods  by  wagoners,  they 
perceived  a  country  team,  and  near  it,  ex- 
tended on  the  sand,  lay  a  man  with  the  cold 
stern  countenance  of  death,  while  a  youth  of 
fifteen,  kneeling  on  one  side  with  his  head 
resting  on  the  silent  breast,  sobbed  as  if  his 
heart  would  break,  and  a  dog  looked  wist- 
fully, as  if  he  knew  the  helplessness  of  his 
master  and  the  anguish  of  the  boy. 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps,  the  youth  sprang 
up.— 


THE  WAGON  BOY,  Page  80. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  3 J 

"Sir,"  he  cried,  "can  you  save  ray  father? 
Save  him,  save  him !" 

Mr.  Edwards  alighted  from  his  horse  and 
approached  the  body.  It  had  all  the  marks 
of  death, — the  cold  and  shrunk  countenance, 
the  appalling  repose  of  mortality  bereft  of  soul. 
The  eyes  of  the  youth  brightened  with  eager 
hope  as  Mr.  Edwards  felt  the  pulse  and 
breast  of  the  deceased.  There  was  no  an- 
swering sympathy  in  his  look  ;  he  shook  his 
head  mournfully  and  said,  "  My  poor  fellow  !" 

The  wagon  boy  threw  himself  on  the  body 
of  his  father,  and  gave  that  cry  of  deep  and 
wailing  sorrow,  that  God  allows  to  the 
crowded  heart  to  keep  it  from  breaking. 
The  cold  wind  swept  by  with  a  wintry  gust, 
and  seemed  faintly  to  echo  his  subsiding 
moan.     Richard   took   his  hand. 

"We  will  try  to  comfort  you,  my  poor 
lad,"  said  he.  "  Father,  shall  he  go  home 
with  usl" 


82  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"What  leave  him?"  said  the  wagon  boy, 
clinging  to  his  father,  while  a  deep  shuddering 
shook  his  frame. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Edwards  gently,  "you 
shall  not  leave  him ;  but  would  it  not  relieve 
your  mind  to  see  him  laid  in  a  decent  grave  V 

Mr.  Edwards  had  touched  a  string  that 
finds  an  answering  cord  in  every  heart.  The 
wagon  boy  silently  rose,  passed  his  arm  across 
his  eyes,  from  which  the  large  tears  still 
rolled,  and  assisted  by  Mr.  Edwards  placed 
the  body  on  the  wagon.  The  sad  procession 
moved  along,  and  reached  the  ferry  boat  in 
time  to  pass  to  town. 

Mr.  Edwards  was  rich  and  generous.  He 
clothed  the  wagon  boy  in  appropriate  gar- 
ments the  following  day,  and  walked  with 
Richard  as  mourner  to  the  grave.  The 
faithful  dog  mutely  followed,  and  when  the 
wagon  boy  returned  from  the  mournful  cere- 
mony, he  laid  himself  down  by  the  side  of  the 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  33 

poor  brute,  and  throwing  his  arms  around  the 
animal,  hid  his  swollen  eyes  upon  his  neck, 
as  if  he  only  could  understand  his  feeliugs. 

For  many  days  they  tried  to  comfort  him 
in  vain,  for  religious  emotions  were  new  to 
him ;  but  when  Mr.  Edwards  explained  to 
him  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  and  Richard 
read  to  him  those  sublime  and  touching  por- 
tions of  scripture  which  tell  us  that  afflictions 
are  not  of  the  dust,  and  that  whom  the  Lord 
loveth  he  chasteneth,  the  wagon  boy  was 
comforted.  He  returned  to  his  home,  sad  but 
resigned,  and  Richard  too  was  taught  a  reli- 
ance on  Providence,  that  was  often  renewed 
when  he  rode  by  the  spot  where  the  cry  of 
the  wagon  boy  first  pierced  his  ear. 


84 


m 


EVENING  HYMN. 


'Tis  evening,  and  the  skies 
With  starry  lights  are  spread; 

How  very  fair  the  moonbeams  rise, 
And  silver  radiance  shed. 

I  will  retire  to  rest, 

'Neath  Heaven's  o'er-arching  sky, 
And  feel  my  nightly  visions  blest, 

For  God  is  watching  by. 

And  if  the  wing  of  death 

Should  sweep  o'er  my  repose, 

Resign' d,  I'll  yield  to  Him  my  breath, 
And  rise  as  Jesus  rose. 


85 


CHOICE  OF  COUNTRIES. 

Father. 

I  would  cross  the  wide  Atlantic, 

And  the  cliffs  of  England  hail, 
For  there  my  country's  fathers 

First  set  their  western  sail. 
I  would  view  its  domes  and  palaces, 

And  tread  each  learned  hall, 
And  on  the  soil  where  Newton  trod 

My  foot  should  proudly  fall. 
I  would  gaze  upon  its  landscapes, 

The  dell  and  sunny  glade, 
And  tread  with  awe  the  cloister'd  aisle 

Where  Addison  is  laid. 

Louisa. 
I  would  seek  the  Indian  Ocean, 
Where  the  sea-shell  loves  to  grow, 


35  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Where  the  tints  upon  its  bosom 
In  gorgeous  beauty  glow. 

I  would  chase  the  parting  billow 
For  treasures  new  and  rare, 

And  with  wreaths  of  blushing  coral 
Entwine  my  waving  hair. 

Caroline. 

I  would  be  a  ship's  commander, 

And  find  the  northern  pole, 
While  o'er  untraveled  oceans 

My  vent'rous  bark  should  roll. 
Or  I'd  seek  untrodden  islands, 

Amid  Antarctic  seas, 
And  the  standard  of  my  country 

Plant  first  before  the  breeze. 

Eliza. 


Oh,  give  me  Carolina, 
My  dear,  my  native  home 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  37 

From  her  fair  and  sheltering  borders 

I  ask  not  e'er  to  roam. 
My  schoolmates  here  are  playing, 

My  parents  dear  I  see ; 
Oh,  give  me  Carolina, 

She  is  fair  enough  for  me  ! 

Anna. 

I  do  not  know  where  England  is, 

Nor  any  other  place, 
But  I  love  to  frolic  with  my  puss, 

And  see  her  wash  her  face. 
I'll  keep  close  by  my  baby-house, 

And  be  very  good  all  day, 
If  one  I  love  will  dress  my  dolls 

And  let  me  have  my  way. 

Mother. 

The  whole  broad  earth  is  beautiful, 
To  minds  attuned  aright, 


33  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

And  wheresoe'er  my  feet  have  turn'd, 

A  smile  has  met  my  sight. 
The  city,  with  its  bustling  walk, 

Its  splendor,  wealth,  and.  power, — 
A  ramble  by  the  river  side, — 

A  passing  summer  flower ; 
The  meadow  green,  the  ocean's  swell, 

The  forest  waving  free, 
Are  gifts  of  God,  and  speak  in  tones 

Of  kindliness  to  me. 
And  oh,  where'er  my  lot  is  cast, 

Where'er  my  footsteps  roam, 
If  those  I  love  are  near  to  me, 

I  feel  that  spot  my  home. 


THE  YOUNG  MATHEMATICIAN.  Page  93 


89 


THE  YOUNG  MATHEMATICIAN. 

Laura  Sinclair  was  an  intelligent  girl,  stu- 
diously devoted  to  all  her  lessons  except 
arithmetic. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  would  exclaim,  "this 
is  arithmetic  day.     How  I  hate  it." 

"My  daughter,  do  not  make  use  of  such 
expressions,"  said  her  mother.  Nothing  is 
wanting  but  attention  and  perseverance,  to 
make  that  study  as  agreeable  as  any  other. 
If  you  pass  over  a  rule  carelessly,  and  say 
you  understand  it,  from  want  of  energy  to 
learn  it,  you  will  continue  ignorant  of  impor- 
tant principles.  I  speak  with  feeling  on  this 
subject,  for  when  I  went  to  school,  a  fine 
arithmetician  shared  the  same  desk  with  me, 
and  whenever  I  was  perplexed  by  a  difficult 

7 


90  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

sum,  instead  of  applying  to  my  teacher  for 
an  explanation,  I  asked  Amelia  to  do  it  for 
me.  The  consequence  is,  that  even  now  I 
am  obliged  to  refer  to  others  in  the  most  tri- 
fling calculations.  I  expect  much  assistance 
from  your  perseverance,  dear  Laura,"  contin- 
ued she,  affectionately  taking  her  hand. 

Laura's  eyes  looked  a  good  resolution,  and 
she  commenced  the  next  day  putting  it  in 
practice.  Instead  of  being  angry  because  she 
could  not  understand  her  figures,  she  tried  to 
clear  her  brow  to  understand  them  better,  and 
her  tutor  was  surprised  to  find  her  mind  rap- 
idly opening  to  comprehend  the  most  difficult 
rules.  She  now  felt  the  pleasure  of  self-con- 
quest, beside  the  enjoyment  of  her  mother's 
approbation,  and  for  many  years  steadily 
gave  herself  up  to  the  several  branches  of 
mathematics. 

Laura  was  the  eldest  of  three  children, 
who  had  been  born  to  the  luxuries  of  wealth. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  gj 

Mr.  Sinclair  was  a  merchant  of  great  re- 
spectability, but  in  the  height  of  his  sup- 
posed riches,  one  of  those  failures  took  place, 
which  often  occur  in  commercial  transactions, 
and  his  affairs  became  suddenly  involved. 
A  nervous  temperament  and  a  delicate 
constitution,  were  soon  sadly  wrought  on 
by  this  misfortune.  Mr.  Sinclair's  mind, 
perplexed  and  harrassed,  seemed  sinking  un- 
der the  weight  of  anxiety.  Laura  was  at 
this  period  sixteen  years  of  age;  her  mind 
was  clear  and  vigorous  and  seemed  ready, 
like  a  young  fawn,   for   its  first  bound. 

One  cold  autumnal  evening,  the  children 
with  their  wild  gambols  were  playing  around 
the  room,  while  Mr.  Sinclair  sat  leaning 
his  head  upon  his  hand  over  a  table  cov- 
ered with  papers.  Mrs.  Sinclair  was  busily 
employed  in  sewing,  and  Laura,  with  her 
fingers  between  the  pages  of  a  book,  sat 
gazing   at  her  father. 


92      .  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"Those  children  distract  me,"  said  Mr. 
Sinclair  in  a  sharp   accent. 

"Hush  Robert,  come  here  Margaret,"  said 
Mrs.  Sinclair  gently;  and  she  took  one  on 
her  lap,  and  the  other  by  her  knee,  and 
whispering  to  them  a  little  story,  calmed 
them  to  sleepiness  and  then  put  them  to  bed. 

When  Mrs.  Sinclair  had  left  the  room, 
Laura  laid  down  her  book  and  stood  by 
her  father. 

"  Don't  disturb  me,  child,"  said  he  roughly. 
"My  head  aches."  Then  recollecting  him- 
self, he  took  her  hand  and  continued,  "Do 
not  feel  hurt  my  dear ;  my  mind  is  per- 
plexed by   these  complicated  accounts." 

"Father/'  said  Laura  with  a  smile,  "I 
think  I  can  help  you  if  you  will  let  me 
try." 

"  You !  my  love,"  exclaimed  her  father, 
"why  these  papers  would  puzzle  a  wiser 
head  than  yours." 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  93 

"I  do  not  wish  to  boast,  father,"  said 
Laura,  modestly,  but  my  teacher  said  to 
day, — "     Laura  hesitated. 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?"  asked  Mr. 
Sinclair,  encouragingly. 

"He  said,"  answered  Laura,  blushing 
deeply,  "that  I  was  a  quicker  accountant 
than  most  men  of  business ;  and  I  do  believe 
father,"  continued  she,  earnestly,  "that  if 
you  were  to  explain  your  papers  to  me,  I 
could   help   you." 

Mr.  Sinclair  smiled  incredulously,  but  un- 
willing to  check  his  daughter's  wish  for 
usefulness,  he  made  some  remarks  and  opened 
his  ledger.  Insensibly  he  found  himself 
entering  with  her  into  the  labyrinth  of 
numbers.  Mrs.  Sinclair  came  in  on  tip- 
toe, and  seated  herself  softly  at  the  table 
to  sew.  The  accounts  became  more  and 
more  complicated,  but  Mr.  Sinclair  seemed 
to   gain   energy  under   the  clear    quick   eye 


94  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

of  his  child;  her  unexpected  sympathy  in- 
spired him  with  new  powers.  Hour  after 
hour  passed  away,  and  his  spirits  rose  at 
every  chime   of  the  clock. 

"  Wife,"  said  he  suddenly,  "if  this  girl 
gives  me  aid  like  this,  I  shall  be  in  a  new 
world  to  morrow." 

"My  beloved  child,"  said  Mrs.  Sinclair, 
pressing  Laura's  fresh   cheek  to  her  own. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck  before  Laura  left 
her  father,  when  she  commended  herself  to 
God  and  slept  profoundly.  The  next  morn- 
ing, after  seeking  His  blessing,  she  repaired 
to  Mr.  Sinclair,  and  sat  by  him  day  after 
day,  until  his  books  were  faithfully  balanced. 

"Father,"  said  she,  "you  have  tried  me, 
and  find  me  worth  something;  let  me  keep 
your  books  until  you  can  afford  a  respon- 
sible clerk,  and  give  me  a  little  salary  to 
buy  shells  for  my  cabinet. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH,  95 

Mr.  Sinclair  accepted  the  proposition. 
Laura's  cabinet  increased  in  beauty,  and  the 
finished  female  hand-writing  in  his  books 
and  papers,  was  a  subject  of  interest  and 
curiosity  to  his  mercantile  friends. 


96 


THE  NEW  BOOTS. 


Dear  mother,  come  look   at  these  beautiful 
boots, 
Just  hear  what  an  elegant   creak! 
I  declare   there's    no    word  so   sweet  in  the 
world, 
As  that  which  a  new  boot  can  speak. 

Take  care,   sister   Anna,  don't  come  in  my 
way, 
Run  further,  you  troublesome   chit, — 
You    would   look   at  my  boots?      Oh  very 
well,   dear, 
Come  and  see   how   completely  they  fit. 

Why,  really  the  child  has  a    share  of  good 
taste, 
Just  see  her  admiring  gaze! 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH,  97 

Come,   come,   sister  Nanny,   and  sit  in  my 
lap, 
Little   children  have  such  pretty  ways. 

Pray  mamma  don't  look  anxiously  down  at 
my   toes, 

I  assure  you  they  don't  hurt   at  all; 
They  only  look  tight,  as  is  often  the  case, 

I  would  not  have  bought  them  too  small. 

Young   Loring   and    I   chose    our    boots   at 
one  store, — 

His   foot  is  the  size  of  my  own; 
But  really,  mamma,  he  bought  his  so  large, 

That   he  looks   like   a   clown  overgrown. 

Hark !    Toney  is  coming, — now  don't  say  a 
word, 

Just  see  how  his  white  eyes  will  shine. 
Hear,  Toney,  my  boy,  what  an  elegant  creak 

Proceeds  from  these  new  boots  of  mine ! 


98  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Did  you  ever  behold  a  fit  more  complete  1 
Why  turn  your  big  eyes  to  the  wall? 

"He  new,  and  he  bright,   my  young  massa, 
for  true, 
And  pride  neber  feel  pain  at  all? 


IWWV^.^rfV%^<**l 


1 


99 


ST.  NICHOLAS. 

A    CHRISTMAS    DUE  AM. 

One  Christmas  eve,  John  Eggleston  hung 
his  stockings  carefully  by  the  chimney  corner, 
and  after  saying  his  prayers,  fell  asleep. 

John  dreamed  that  he  was  in  bed  peeping 
at  his  stocking  over  the  bed  clothes,  when  he 
saw  a  very  pleasant  looking  old  gentleman 
come  down  the  chimney  on  a  nice  little  po- 
ney,  precisely  like  one  named  Lightfoot,  that 
his  uncle  Ben  had  promised  to  give  him.  It 
was  funny,  indeed,  to  see  the  poney  slide 
down  feet  foremost,  and  John  laughed  out 
in  his  sleep  ;  but  he  laughed^jU  louder  when 
he  examined  old  Nicholas,  t!|Wider. 


& 


I 


d  still 

I 


100  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

His  hair  was  made  of  squibs,  and  as  he 
came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lamp  that 
stood  on  the  hearth,  pop  went  off  one  of  the 
crackers,  and  then  another.  St.  Nick  was 
not  a  bit  frightened, — he  only  rubbed  his  ears 
with  his  coat  sleeve,  patted  the  poney  to 
keep  him  quiet,  and  laughed  till  he  shewed 
the  concave  of  his  great  mouth  full  of  sugar- 
plums. 

John  was  excessively  amused,  and  shouted 
so  loud  that  his  mother  thought  he  had  the 
nightmare.  He  watched  the  old  gentleman 
closely,  and  then  looked  at  his  stocking.  It 
hung  very  conveniently. 

"  He  can't  put  the  poney  in  it,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  and  that  is  a  pity." 

The  old  gentleman's  pockets  stuck  out  pro- 
digiously, and  he  panted  and  puffed  as  if  he 
had  been  cudgeling  an  alligator. 

"Well,"  sample,  wiping  the  perspiration 
off  his  face,  although  it  was  cold  December, 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  IQ\ 

"if  this  is  not  hard  work.  Sixty-five  young- 
sters have  I  called  on  the  last  hour.  Hark ! 
the  clock  sounds  down  the  chimney,  one, 
two ;  I  shall  have  a  tough  job  to  pop 
down  all  the  chimnies  in  the  town  before 
day-light.  I  wonder  what  this  chap  would 
like  for  a  Christmas  present,"  continued  he, 
eyeing  the  stocking ;  then  putting  his  arms 
akimbo,  he  began  to  consider. 

John's  heart  beat. 

"  Good  Mr.  Nicholas,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"if  you  could  only  give  me  that  poney." 

But  he  kept  quite  still,  for  he  saw  the  old 
man  thrust  his  hands  into  his  tremendous 
pockets. 

"  Let  me  see,"  says  old  Nicholas  ;  "  here  is 
a  jacknife  that  I  was  to  have  given  to  Tom 
Butler,  if  he  had  not  quarreled  with  his  sisters. 
Hocus  pocus  /"  At  this  the  stocking  opened 
and  in  went  the  jack-knife. 

It  was  the  very  thing  John  wanted. 


102  THE  HOSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Then  the. old  man  pulled  from  his  pockets 
twine,  tops,  marbles,  dissected  maps,  books, 
sugar-plums,  and  divers  other  notions,  all  the 
while  talking  to  himself. 

"  This  lignum- vitse  top,"  said  he,  "  is  for 
Tim  Barnwell,  a  clever  chap  who  never  tells 
lies.  This  line  and  fish-hook  Master  Troup 
must  have,  for  his  kind  care  of  his  father 
when  he  had  the  gout.  This  annual  was  for 
William  Wiley,  but  the  lad  kicked  his  brother 
and  called  him  a  wicked  name,  so  we  will  lay 
it  by  for  Tom  Trout." 

John  thought  he  could  stay  forever  to  see 
the  old  gentleman  take  out  his  knick-knacks 
and  tell  whom  they  were  for ;  but  he  began 
to  be  a  little  frightened  for  his  own  stocking, 
when  he  recollected  that  he  had  been  remiss 
in  his  Latin  the  last  quarter. 

"I  hope  the  old  gentleman  don't  understand 
the  classics,"    said  John  to  himself;    but  he 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  JQ3 

stopped  short,  for  his  queer  visiter  held  the 
stocking  up  to  his  nose,  saying, 

"I  think  this  lad  loves  gunpowder,  by  the 
smell." 

He  then  took  hold  of  his  hair,  and  pulling 
out  squibs  by  the  dozen  from  his  head,  tied 
them  up  in  parcels  and  threw  them  into  the 
stocking.  As  fast  as  he  pulled  them  off,  new 
squibs  appeared,  and  hung  down  over  his  ears 
and  forehead. 

"This  accounts  for  the  noise  we  hear  on 
Christmas,"  thought  John.  "I  never  knew 
before  how  squibs  were  made  ;"  and  he  had 
to  hold  his  sides  for  laughing,  the  old  gen- 
tleman looked  so  droll. 

As  St.  Nick  was  stooping  over  the  light  to 
put  a  new  supply  into  the  stocking,  a  great 
number  exploded,  and  the  little  poney  giving 
a  start  disappeared  up  chimney. 

John  awoke  ;  it  was  just  day-break.  He 
sprang  out  of  bed,  roused  all  the  family  with 


104  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

his  "Merry  Christmas,"  ran  to  the  stable, 
and  what  should  he  see  but  uncle  Ben's 
poney,  with  a  bridle  on  his  neck,  on  which 
was  pinned  a  piece  of  paper  written — 

"A    merry    Christmas,   with    the  poney 
Lightfoot,  for  my  nephew  John." 


TIGHT   BOOTS,  Page  106. 


105 


THE  TIGHT  BOOTS. 

Oh,  mamma,  I  am  mortified,  hurt  and  asham'd, 
And  scarce  can  look  up  in  jour  face  : 

Young  Loring,  who  never  could  beat  me  be* 
fore, 
Has  beat  me  to-day  in  a  race. 

You  laugh  !     1  would  thank  you  ma'   never 
to  laugh 
As  you  do  when  I  speak  in  this  style ; 
I   think   I   would    sometimes    prefer    to    be 
whipped, 
Than  to  see  that  half-comical  smile. 

Well,  mamma,  we  were  walking  just  out  of 
the  town, 
When  Loring  proposed  we  should  run; 
8 


106  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

You  know  what  a  fellow  1  am  for  a  race, 
And  I  thought  to  have  excellent  fun. 

So  we  started  together,  the  boys  looking  on, 
My  boots  felt  as  tight  as  a  vice; 

I  hobbled  and  stumbled,  just  ready  to  fall, 
While  Loring  was  off  in  a  trice. 

The  boys  shouted,  "  new  boots,  run  new  boots, 
hurra !" 

Their  ridicule  went  to  my  soul; 
I  hopped  like  a  turkey,  and  was  not  half  way 

When  Loring  was  safe  at  the  goal. 

My  toes  were    all   cramp'd,   and  my  ancles 
were  sore, 
And  I  made  such  a  shocking  grimace, 
That  Loring,  though  he's  such  a  gentleman, 
ma', 
Could  not  help  laughing  out  in  my  face. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  XQ7 

And   big  Billy  Blackford   took  out  his   hair 
comb, 
And  said,  as  he  sat  on  the  grass, 
"  Though  your  boots  spoil  your  racing,  they'll 
serve  a  good  turn, 
And  answer  right  well  for  a  glass." 

Pray  hand  me  my  old  boots,  dear  ma',  if  you 
please  ; 
And  Toney,  do  stretch  these  a  bit. 
No  grinning,  you  rogue,  they  are  scarcely  too 
small  ; 
Just  stretch  them — I  know  they  will  fit. 


108 


CINDERCLAWS. 

A    CHRISTMAS    DREAM. 

Susan  Eggleston's  fair  cheek  rested  on  her 
pillow,  a  few  curls  strayed  from  her  night- 
cap, and  her  breathing  was  like  the  motion 
of  a  lily  leaf  on  the  smooth  waters,  when 
her  mother  went  on  tiptoe  into  her  room, 
opened  her  stocking  and  placed  something 
within  it ;  then  casting  a  look  of  satisfied 
fondness  on  the  little  sleeper,  she  touched  her 
cheek  with  the  lightest  of  kisses,  and  departed 
with  a  mother's  prayer  of  love. 

Susan  dreamed  that  something  descended 
slowly  down  the  chimney,  covered  with  a 
sooty  blanket,  from  which  proceeded  a  female 
voice,  singing  sweetly.     When  it  had  reached 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  JQ9 

the  hearth,  she  observed  four  hooks  let  down 
by  cords  to  the  four  corners  of  the  blanket, 
which  carefully  drew  it  up  chimney  again, 
without  scattering  a  cinder. 

Under  this  singular  canopy  sat  a  small  airy 
figure,  in  a  glass  barouche  drawn  by  four 
peacocks,  surrounded  by  numerous  little  at- 
tendants." 

"It  would  be  very  strange,"  thought  Susan, 
"if  this  pretty  creature  should  be  Cinder- 
claws." 

The  little  lady  in  the  barouche  was  hold- 
ing with  some  difficulty  a  large  wax  doll, 
and  as  she  fondly  caressed  it,  her  soft  voice 
sang,— 

"  Hush  thee,  my  darling, 

Thy  journey  was  drear, 
But  I  bring  you  to  Susan, 

And  why  should  you  fear?" 

There  was  a  short  consultation  among  the 
attendants,  when  a  little  footman  in  scarlet 


HQ  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

livery,  let  down  the  steps  like  a  flash,  and 
taking  the  lead  of  twenty  others,  bore  with 
some  difficulty  and  much  wiping  of  brows, 
the  doll  to  the  stocking.  Finding  it  impos- 
sible to  get  her  in,  they  laid  her  on  the  toilet- 
table,  and  returned  to  the  barouche  with  a 
flourish  of  little  trumpets. 

Another  consultation  followed,  and  the  little 
people,  darting  about  like  fire-flies,  began  to 
display  the  contents  of  the  barouche.  Swan, 
fish,  turkey  and  cat  pin-cushions,  thread-cases 
of  all  forms  and  colors,  implements  of  industry, 
from  the  silver- eyed  needle  to  the  gold  inlaid 
work-box,  were  successively  unfolded,  and, 
among  other  things,  Susan  distinguished  a 
nice  box  of  French  sugar-plums.  As  the 
breath  of  Cinderclaws  passed  over  them,  every 
thing  looked  fresher  and  fairer. 

Another  whispering  took  place,  and  Susan 
heard  the  words, 

"A  dessert  for  Susan's  dinner-party." 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  m 

Quick  as  thought  was  arranged  a  small 
polished  table,  with  plates  for  twelve.  A 
taper,  colored  with  rain-bow  hues,  suddenly 
shot  up  in  the  centre,  by  the  side  of  an  iced 
pyramid,  on  which  was  a  waving  flag,  with 
the  inscription, — 

"A  Merry  Christmas  and  Happy  New 
Year." 

Fruits  of  every  description,  from  the  bead- 
like currant  of  the  North,  to  the  beautiful 
pomegranate  of  the  South,  were  deposited  in 
glass  and  silver  dishes  on  the  festive  board. 

"  What  are  you  placing  there  V '  said  Cin- 
derclaws  suddenly,  as  the  waiters  were  busily 
arranging  little  decanters  at  the  corners,  and 
a  tiny  little  cordial  stand  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

"A  little  French  cordial,"  answered  one, 
consequentially. 

A  frown  rose  to  the  little  brow  of  the  fairy, 
like  a  thundercloud  on  the  blue  sky.     She 


112  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

rose  suddenly,  and  stamping  her  small  foot 
until  the  barouche  rang  again,  exclaimed, 

"How  dare  you  do  this?  If  men  turn 
brutes  with  stimulants,  leave  at  least  temper- 
ance to  the  young.  Bring  here  the  poison," 
she  continued,  her  small  voice  shouting  in 
worthy  indignation,  "bring  it  here,  and  away !" 

With  both  hands  she  grasped  the  bottles, 
and  dashing  them  successively  on  the  hearth, 
shivered  them  to  pieces,  while  the  blushing 
liquid  flowed  around. 

The  awe-struck  attendants  looked  down  in 
shame.  A  low  whistle  sounded;  the  blanket 
slowly  descended,  enveloping  the  barouche; 
the  peacocks  spread  their  wings,  and  Susan 
heard  departing  voices  chanting,  as  the  fairy 
ascended, — 

"  Wake  !  wake  !  bonny  birds, 

'Tis  the  dawning  of  day; 
We  must  flee  from  the  city, — 

Mount,  mount,  and  away!" 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  H$ 

"Papa,"  said  Susan  as  she  caressed  a  beau- 
tiful doll  he  gave  her  before  breakfast,  "I 
dreamed  last  night  that  Cinderelaws  belonged 
to  the  Temperance  Society." 

"I  hope  it  is  true,"  said  her  father. 


114 


THE  CHOICE  OF  FLOWERS. 

Father. 
I  love   to  walk  at   twilight 
When  sunset  nobly  dies, 
And  see  the    parting  splendor 
That    lightens  up  the  skies, 
And  call  up    old  remembrances 
Deep,    dim  as   evening  gloom, 
Or  look   to  heaven's  promises 
Like  star-light  on   a   tomb. 

Laura. 
I   love  the  hour  of  darkness 
When  I   give   myself  to   sleep, 
And  I  think   that  holy   angels 
Their  watch   around   me  keep. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  H5 

My   dreams   are   light   and   happy 
As  I   innocently   lie, 
For  my   mother's  kiss  is  on  my   cheek, 
And  my  father's  step   is  nigh. 

Mary. 

I  love  the  social  afternoon, 

When  lessons  all  are  said, 

Geography  is  laid   aside 

And  grammar  put   to  bed ; 

Then  a  walk  upon  the  battery 

With   a  friend  is  very  sweet, 

And  a  seven  pence   for  an  ice-cream 

To  give   that  friend  a  treat. 

Mother. 
I  love   the    Sabbath   evening 
When  my  lov'd   ones   sit  around, 
And  tell  of  all  their   feelings 
By   hope  and   fancy   crowned, 


HQ  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

And  though  some   plants   are   missing 
In  that  sweetly  thoughtful  hour, 
I  will  not   call  them  back  again 
To  earth's  decaying  bower. 


XVCWA.WWW 


117 


THE  NEW  SCHOLAR. 


The  first  Monday  of  January,  1820, 
Master  Richard  Homespun,  under  the  di- 
rection of  his  mamma,  made  the  usual  prep- 
ations  for  entering  an  academy  in  a  South- 
ern city  of  our  Union.  Richard  was  four- 
teen years  told,  and  well  grown ;  a  fact 
particularly  perceptible,  as  his  tight  sleeves 
only  came  to  his  wrist,  and  left  his  purple 
hands  fully  exposed  to  anatomical  observa- 
tion. Nature  had  been  singularly  bountiful 
to  Richard  in  a  thick  bushy  head ;  but  like 
most  over-grown  populations,  "each  particu- 
lar hair,"  could  not  have  its  due  attention, 
and  the  whole  mass  stuck  up  in  turbulent 
strength. 


113  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

Richard's  mamma  had  given  him  various 
directions  on  his  journey,  with  regard  to  his 
deportment. 

"Dicky,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "you  must 
~be  careful  when  you  go  into  school  to  hold 
up  your  head,  and  make  your  manners,  or 
the  boys  will  laugh  at  you/' 

Richard  was  a  good  son,  and  promised 
to  bow,  little  thinking  of  the  tremendous 
difference  there  is  between  the  dodge  of  a 
country  boy,  and  the  sweeping  curve  of  a 
city  obeisance. 

"And  mind,  Dicky  dear,"  said  his  mam- 
ma, "keep  your  new  hat  safe,  and  don't 
get  any  dog-ears  in  your  books,  and  when 
you  open  them  do  it  softly,  and  don't  break 
the  covers ;  read  so,  my  dear ;"  and  Mrs. 
Homespun  inserted  her  nose  between  the 
blue  covers   of  a   Spelling   Book. 

Richard  was  a  smart  boy,  and  had  been 
one   of   the    best    students   and    kite-players 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 


119 


at  a  country  school,  but  he  felt  in  great 
trepidation  at  the  idea  of  encountering  so 
many  strangers,  beside  having  had  hints  of 
pumping  and  other  school  tricks.  His 
mother  kept  him  so  long  on  Monday,  ar- 
ranging his  collar,  picking  the  threads  off 
his  jacket,  and  smoothing  his  new  hat,  that 
the  exercises  of  the  school  had  commenced 
before   he  entered. 

As  soon  as  a  new  face,  accompanied  by 
the  insignia  of  a  satchel,  appeared  at  the 
door,  the  school  hum  ceased,  and  every 
eye  was  fixed  upon  him.  He  took  off  his 
hat,  and  holding  it  straight  before  him,  gave 
an  agitated  jerk  with  his  head,  and  scraped 
his  foot   with   a   fling  up   backwards. 

A  smile,  to  say  the  least,  spread  over  the 
young  assembly.  The  principal,  who  saw 
the  gathering  commotion,  advanced  to  his 
country  catechumen,    and  seated  him  where 


120  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

he  would  not  be  exposed  to  the  observation 
of  the   scholars. 

There  are  few  scenes  where  a  good  heart 
and  regulated  understanding  are  more  con- 
spicuous, than  in  the  ranks  of  a  school  on 
the  introduction  of  a  new  pupil.  Whatever 
may  be  his  appearance,  a  perfectly  well 
bred  boy  will  welcome  a  school-mate  to 
his  new  duties  with  politeness.  Who  does 
not  remember  the  moment  when  he  first 
entered  ^g  dreaded  school-room ;  how  anx- 
iously he  ^lrf|t  a  glance  around,  to  see  if 
there  were  any  who  meant  to  respect  and 
love  him  in  that  strange    circle? 

The  principal  of  the  seminary  to  which 
Richard  was  introduced,  was  generous  and 
kind.  He  saw  by  the  boy's  bright  eyes, 
that  be  was  intelligent,  though  awkward. 
After  the  exercises  of  the  -  morning  were 
over,  he  called  on  the  class  in  which 
Richard  had  entered  to  remain. 


THE  NEW  SCHOLAR,         Pag^  120 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  J21 

"Young  gentlemen,"  said  W,  "allow  me  to 
introduce  you  to  a  new  school-mate.  He 
is  a  stranger,  and  will  depend  on  you  in 
some  measure  lor  happiness,  now  that  he  is 
away  from  his  home.  I  hope  that  by  your 
kindness  you  will  make  him  feel  that  he  is 
among   friends." 

The  boys  looked  a  little  disconcerted, 
for  they  had  been  planning  a  hoax ;  but 
better  feelings  prevailed.  He  was  received, 
not  as  a  butt,  but  as  an  equal,  and  they 
learned  that   kindness    was  better  than  fun. 

Some  of  these  very  boys  are  now  voting 
for  Mr.  Homespun  as  member  to  Congress. 


122 
KEPT  IN.     . 

SUGGESTED  BY  WILLIS'S  "  SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  " 

I  hate  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  trouble  and  dismay, 
For  it  makes  me  feel  a  century  old, 

And  turns  my  locks  to  gray. 
It  chills  the  blood  in  a  woman's  heart, 

And  makes  her  pulses  die, 
To  catch  the  whine  of  a  punished  voice 

And  the  frown  of  a  reddened  eye. 

Study  on,  study  on,  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  sobbing  ring; 
I  feel  the  thrill  of  the  ferula's  stroke 

And  the  rush  of  the  strap's  black  wing; 
The  fool's-cap  topples  over  my  head, 

And  my  face  is  turned  to  the  wall, 
And  my  feet  slip  off  from  the  dunce's  bench, 

And  I  tremble  lest  I  fall. 


123 


A  REMONSTRANCE  ABOUT  THE  DRUM- 
STICK. 

It  seems  very  strange,  and  I  can't  make  it 
out, 

Why  the  drumstick  is  given  to  me  ; 
I  think  I  deserve  a  nice  part  of  the  fowl, 

Yet  forever  the  drumstick  I  see. 

I   pass  the  white   meat  to  Miss  Anderson's 
plate, 

And  old  Mr.  Rich  takes  the  thighs; 
The  side-bones  go  off  at  a  terrible  rate, 

And  the  pinion  to  sister  Ann  flies. 

If  I  were  to  count  all  the  drumsticks  I've  had 
Since  the  pap  spoon  was  taken  away, 

And  I've  sitten  at  table  with  women  and  men, 
You  would  hardly  believe  what  I  say. 


124  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

'Tis  said  that  a  part  helps  a  part,  and  I'm 
sure 

If  that  is  the  state  of  the  case, 
I  think  I  can  enter  before  very  long 

With  "  Bonnets  of  Blue"  for  a  jace. 

I'm  sure  I'm  not  greedy,  but  really,  papa, 
If  you  give  me  the  drumstick  again, 

Your  son,  in  the  place  of  a  leg  like  your  own, 
Will  exhibit  the  shank  of  a  crane. 


125 


THE  MAY-DAY  WREATH. 

Elvira  Allen,  a  girl  of  extreme  beauty, 
was  receiving  her  education  at  a  boarding 
school,  where  every  possible  attention  was 
paid  to  her  moral  and  religious  as  well  as 
intellectual  habits.  But  though  intelligent 
and  industrious,  nothing  could  conquer  her 
devotion  to  her  own  personal  attractions. 
The  good  sense  of  her  teachers  had  assisted 
in  part  to  correct  this  fault  of  her  charac- 
ter, but  like  all  efforts  that  are  not  founded 
on  religious  principle,  it  sprang  up  at  the 
spell   of  temptation. 

A  May-day  celebration  was  to  take  place, 
and  the  school-girls  were  all  in  a  glow  of 
expectation.  The  day  arrived,  and  a  queen 
was  to  be  chosen.     Who   should  it  be? 


126  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"It  must  be  Ellen,"  said  one.  "How 
amiable  and  generous  she  is !  Do  you  re- 
member her  assisting  that  old  negro  woman 
we  met  on  the  road  yesterday,  and  giving  her 
all  her  cake,  while  we  ate  ourst" 

"  Ah,  but  Jane  must  be  queen,"  said  Susan 
Harrison.  "  She  is  so  lively  that  she  will 
amuse  us  every  moment  while  she  is  on  her 
throne ;  and  then  she  looks  so  grave  all  the 
time,  and  prims  up  her  mouth  while  we  are 
aching  with  laughter.  Oh,  I  should  love  such 
a  funny  queen." 

"  I  know  she  is  very  droll,"  said  another, 
"but  she  is  not  a  perfect  scholar.  Elizabeth 
Glen  never  missed  a  lesson.  She  ought  to  be 
queen." 

"Oh,  Elizabeth  is  too  grave,"  said  one. 
"I  like  Lucy  Manson.  She  is  very  religious, 
but  always  cheerful,  and  trying  to  make  others 
happy." 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  127 

The  argument  ran  quite  high  as  each  con- 
tended for  her  favorite,  until  Alice  Matthews 
clapped  her  hands  and  exclaimed, — 

"  I  know  who  will  be  a  splendid  queen, — 
Elvira  Allen.  How  superbly  she  will  look, 
sitting  on  her  grassy  throne  with  a  wreath  on 
her  white  forehead." 

The  children,  like  other  mortals,  were 
fascinated  by  appearances,  and  Elvira  was 
proclaimed  queen  by  acclamation.  She 
retired  to  her  toilet,  and  the  girls,  after  a 
little  consultation,  flocked  to  their  teacher. 

"Have  the  goodness,"  they  exclaimed,  "to 
loan  us  the  wreath  you  were  showing  Mrs. 
Lewis  the  other  day.  We  wish  Elvira  to 
wear  it  for  her  crown." 

The  consent  was  readily  given.  They 
rushed  to  Mrs.  Warren's  dressing  room,  but 
the  flowers  were  not  there.  Looking  with 
disappointment  at  each  other,  they  returned  to 
their   teacher  with    exclamations   of   regret. 


123  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

The  girls,  preceded  by  Mrs.  Warren,  hastened 
to  Elvira's  room,  to  inform  her  of  their  inten- 
tion and  its  failure,  and  consult  on  a  substitute 
for  the  May- day  crown. 

They  entered  abruptly,  and  found  Elvira 
resplendent  in  conscious  beauty ;  her  eyes  had 
the  color  of  Heaven,  and  its  brightness  ;  her 
form  was  graceful  as  the  fringe  tree,  and  her 
dress,  arranged  with  a  view  to  contrast  and 
effect,  was  rich  as  a  catalpa  blossom.  And 
what  was  that  mantling  glow  upon  her  cheeks, 
deep  as  the  last  look  the  sun  casts  upon  an 
evening  sky?  Envy  her  not,  ye  lovers  of  per- 
sonal beauty.  That  glow  was  guilt;  for 
twined  among  the  ringlets  of  her  glossy  hair, 
was  the  wreath  sought  for  by  her  young  com- 
panions. 

The  withering  truth  fell  at  the  same  moment 
on  every  mind.  At  length  Mrs.  Warren,  ad- 
vancing to  the  culprit  beauty,  said,  in  a  cold, 
stern  voice, — 


THE  MAT-DAT  WREATH,         Page  128. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  1£9 

"This  wreath,  Miss  Allen,  was  to  have 
been  yours.  Your  playmates,  proud  of  your 
personal  attractions,  thought  that  innocent 
blossoms  would  grace  your  lovely  face.  My 
heart  is  sick,  Elvira;  sick  and  sorrowful."  A 
large  tear  slowly  rolled  over  her  cheek  as  she 
spoke,  and  the  girls  sobbed  aloud. 

"Keep  the  wreath,  unhappy  child,"  she 
continued,  as  Elvira  tore  it  from  her  hair,  "  it 
may  be  a  warning  to  you." 

The  May-day  was  passed  in  sadness  and 
tears. 


130 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  MUSKOGEE  INDIAN. 

On  the  shore  of  Carolina  an  Indian  warrior 

stood, 
A  captive  of  the  Shawanees,  and  reddened 

with  their  blood ; 
Strange  arts  of  varied  torture  his  conquerors 

tried  in  vain ; 
Like  a  rock  that  stands  the  billows  he  dashed 

them  off  again. 

He  shouted,  and  the  echo  returned  the  length- 
ened shriek, 

"  I  have  rent  you  as  the  eagle  rends  the  dove 
within  his  beak, 

And  ye  give  me  women's  tortures  ;  see,  I  lightly 
cast  them  by, 

As  the  Spirit  of  the  storm-cloud  throws  the 
vapor  from  the  sky." 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  \§\ 

"  Ye  are  women !"  the  wild  echo  came  wilder 

on  the  air — 
"  /  will  show  a  worthy  trial  for  a  Muskogee 

to  bear ; 
Let  me  grasp  a  heated  gun  in  this  raw  and 

bloody  hand, 
And  ye  shall  not  see  an  eyelash  move  to  shame 

my  father-land." 

They  gave  the  glowing  steel.  He  took  it 
with  a  smile, 

And  held  it  as  a  plaything ; — they  stood  in 
awe  the  while  ; 

Then,  springing  like  an  antelope,  he  bran- 
dished it  around, 

And  toward  the  beetling  eminence*  upstarted 
with  a  bound. 

One  leap  and  he  is  over !  fierce,  dashing 
through  the  stream, 

*A  bluff  near  Augusta,  ninety  feet  high. 


132  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

And  his  massy  form  lies  floating  'neath  the 

clear  and  sunny  beam  ; 
A  hundred  arrows  sped  at  once,  but  missed 

that  warrior  bold, 
And  his  mangled  arms,  ere  set  of  sun,  his  little 

ones  enfold. 


133 


THE  PLANTATION. 


A   BALLAD. 


PART  FIRST. 


Farewell,  awhile,  the  city's  hum, 

Where  busy  footsteps  fall, 
And  welcome  to  my  weary  eye, 

The  Planter's  friendly  Hall. 

Here  let  me  rise  at  early  dawn, 
And  list  the  mock-bird's  lay, 

As  warbling  near  our  lowland  home 
He  waves  the  bending  spray  ; 

Then  tread  the  shading  avenue, 
Beneath  the  Cedar's  gloom, 

Or  Gum  tree  with  its  flickering  shade, 
Or  Chinquapen's  perfume. 


134  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

The  Myrtle  tree,  the  Orange  wild, 
The  Cypress'  flexile  bough, 

The  Holly,  with  its  polish' d  leaves, 
Are  all  before  me  now. 

There,  towering  with  imperial  pride, 

The  rich  Magnolia  stands, 
And  here  in  softer  loveliness, 

The  white  bloom'd  Bay  expands. 

The  long  gray  moss  hangs  gracefully; 

Idly  I  twine  its  wreaths, 
Or  stop  to  catch  the  fragrant  air 

The  frequent  blossom  breathes. 

Life  wakes  around — the  Red  Bird  darts 
Like  flame  from  tree  to  tree; 

The  Whip-poor-will  complains  alone, 
The  Robin  whistles  free. 

The  frighten'd  Hare  scuds  by  my  path, 
And  seeks  the  thicket  nigh; 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  J 35 

The  Squirrel  climbs  the  Hickory  bough, 
And  peeps  with  careful  eye. 

The  Humming-bird  with  busy  wing 

In  rainbow  beauty  moves; 
Above  the  trumpet-blossom  floats, 

And  sips  the  tube  he  loves. 

Triumphant  to  yon  wither'd  pine, 

The  soaring  Eagle  flies, 
There  builds  her  eyrie  'mid  the  clouds, 

And  man  and  heaven  defies. 

The  hunter's  bugle  echoes  near, 

And  see,  his  wary  train 
With  mingled  howlings  scent  the  woods, 

Or  scour  the  open  plain. 

Yon  skiff  is  darting  from  the  cove ; 

And  list  the  negro's  song, 
The  theme,  his  owner  and  his  boat, 

While  glide  the  crew  along. 


• 


136  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

And  when  the  leading  voice  is  lost, 

Receding  from  the  shore, 
His  brother  boatmen  swell  the  strain, 

In  chorus  with  the  oar. 

There  stands  the  dairy  on  the  stream, 
Within  the  broad  oak's  shade, 

The  white  pails  glitter  in  the  sun, 
In  rustic  pomp  array'd. 

And  she  stands  smiling  at  the  door, 
Who  minds  that  milky  way; 

She  smooths  her  apron  as  I  pass, 
And  loves  the  praise  I  pay. 

Welcome  to  me  her  sable  hands, 
When,  in  the  noontide  heat, 

Within  the  polish'd  calabash 
She  pours  the  pearly  treat. 

The  poulterer's  feather' d  tender  charge 
Feed  on  the  grassy  plain ; 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  I37 

Her  Afric  brow  lights  up  with  smiles, 
Proud  of  her  noisy  train. 

Nor  does  the  herdsman  view  his  flock 

With  unadmiring  gaze; 
Significant  are  all  their  names, 

Won  by  their  varying  ways. 

Forth  from  the  Negro's  humble  huts 
The  laborers  now  have  gone; 

But  some  remain,  diseased  and  old — 
Do  they  repine  alone? 

Ah,  no  !    The  nurse,  with  practic'd  skill, 
That  sometimes  shames  the  wise, 

Prepares  the  herb  of  potent  power, 
And  healing  aid  applies. 

While  seated  at  his  hut's  low  door, 

The  convalescent  slave 
Gazes  upon  his  garden  store, 

And  sees  the  young  corn  wave. 
10 


138  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

On  sunny  banks  his  children  play, 

Or  wind  the  fisher's  line, 
Or  with  the  dexterous  fancy-braid, 

Their  willow  baskets  twine. 

Long  ere  the  sloping  sun  departs, 
The  laborers  quit  the  field, 

And  housed  within  their  sheltering  huts, 
To  careless  quiet  yield. 

But  see  yon  wild  and  lurid  clouds, 
That  rush  in  contact  strong; 

And  hear  the  thunder,  peal  on  peal, 
Reverberate  along. 

The  cattle  stand  and  mutely  gaze; 

The  birds  instinctive  fly, 
While  forked  flashes  rend  the  air, 

And  light  the  troubled  sky. 

Behold  yon  sturdy  forest  pine, 

Whose  green  top  points  to  Heaven. 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  ^39 

A  flash!  its  firm,  encasing  bark, 
By  that  red  shock  is  riven! 

But  we,  the  children  of  the  south, 
Shrink  not  with  trembling  fears; 

The  storm  familiar  to  our  youth, 
Will  spare  our  ripen'd  years. 

We  know  its  fr&sh  reviving  charm, 
And,  like  the  flower  and  bird, 

Our  looks  and  voices,  in  each  pause, 
With  grateful  joy  are  stirr'd. 

And  now  the  tender  rice  up-shoots, 

Fresh  in  its  hue  of  green, 
Spreading  its  emerald  carpet  far 

Beneath  the  sunny  sheen. 

Though  when  the  softer  ripen'd  hue 

Of  autumn's  changes  rise, 
The  rustling  spires  instinctive  lift 

Their  gold  seeds  to  the  skies. 


140  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

There  the  young  cotton  plant  unfolds 

Its  leaves  of  sickly  hue, 
But  soon  advancing  to  its  growth, 

Looks  up  with  beauty  too. 

And  as  midsummer  suns  prevail, 

Upon  its  blossoms  glow 
Commingling  hues,  likg  sunset  rays — 

Then  bursts  its  sheeted  snow. 

How  shall  we  fly  this  lovely  spot, 

Where  rural  joys  prevail, 
The  social  board,  the  eager  chase, 

Gay  dance  and  merry  tale? 

Alas!  our  youth  must  leave  their  sports 
When  spring-time  ushers  May; 

Our  maidens  quit  the  planted  flower, 
Just  blushing  into  day  ; 

Or,  all  beneath  yon  rural  moimd, 
Where  rest  th'  ancestral  dead, 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  \^\ 

By  mourning  friends,  with  sever'd  hearts, 
Unconscious  will  be  led. 

Oh,  Southern  summer,  false  and  fair! 

Why  from  thy  loaded  wing, 
Blent  with  rich  flowers  and  fruitage  rare, 

The  seeds  of  sorrow  fling  1 


PART  SECOND. 
THE  OVERSEER'S  CHILDREN. 

Three  fleeting  years  have  come  and  gone 

Since  Ann  Pomroy  I  met, 
Returning  from  the  district  school, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  was  set. 

With  her,  her  brother  Francis  stray'd, 

And,  both  in  merry  tone, 
Were  saying  all  the  rambling  things 

Youth  loves  when  tasks  are  done. 


142  THE  ROSEBUD  WREATH. 

The  mountain  tinge  was  on  their  cheeks ; 

From  fair  Vermont  they  came, 
For  wandering  habits  led  their  sire 

A  Southern  home  to  claim. 

Fresh  with  the  airy  spring  of  youth 
They  tripp'd  the  woods  along; 

Now  darting  off  to  cull  a  flower, 
Now  bursting  into  song. 

Oh,  Ann  Pomroy,  thy  sparkling  eye 

Methinks  I  often  see, 
When  some  young  face,  in  loveliness, 

Beams  up  in  smiles  to  me. 

And  when  light  rounds  of  boyish  mirth 
Laugh  out  uncheck'd  by  fear, 

It  seems  to  me  that  Francis'  voice 
Is  floating  on  my  ear. 

I  said  the  hue  of  health  they  bore, — 
Hers  was  the  nect'rine  fair, 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  ^43 

And  his  the  deep  pomegranate  tinge, 
That  boys  of  beauty  wear. 

They  walked  at  early  morn  and  eve, 

And  as  I  yearly  paid 
My  visit  to  the  Planter's  Hall, 

I  saw  the  youth  and  maid. 

At  first,  by  simple  accident 

I  came  upon  their  walk; 
But  soon  I  loved  to  pause,  and  seek 

The  privilege  of  talk — 

Until  my  steps  were  daily  turn'd, 

But  how  I  scarce  can  say, 
When  Ann  and  Francis  came  from  school, 

To  meet  them  on  the  way. 

They  told  me  of  Nejv  England  hills, 

Of  orchards  in  the  sun, 
Of  sleigh-rides  with  the  merry  bells, 

Of  skating's  stirring  fun; 


144  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

And  sometimes  of  a  grave  they  spake, 

And  then  would  sadder  grow, 
In  which  a  gentle  mother  slept 

Beneath  the  wintry  snow. 
******         * 
When  April's   changing  face  was  seen, 

Again  from  town  I  flew, 
To  where  the  sleep  of  nature  wakes 

To  sights  and  odors  new. 

All  things  were  fair, — the  plants  of  earth 

Look'd  upward  to  the  sky, 
And  the  blue  heaven  o'er-arched  them  still 

With  clear  and  glittering  eye. 

I  sought  the  walk  I  used  to  seek, 

And  took  the  little  store 
Of  toys,  that  from  the  city's  mart 

For  Ann  and  Frank  I  bore. 

A  rustling  in  the  leaves  I  heard, 
But  Francis  only  came  ; 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  145 

His  eye  was  dim,  his  cheek  was  pale, 
And  agues  shook  his  frame. 

He  saw  me — to  my  open  arms 
With  sudden  gladness  sprang; 

Then  raised  a  thrilling  cry  of  grief, 
With  which  the  forest  rang. 

Few  words  he  spake,  but  led  me  on 
To  where  a  grave-like  mound, 

With  young  spring  plants  and  evergreens, 
In  rural  taste  were  crown'd. 

And  there  he  stood,  while  gushing  tears 
Like  summer  rain-drops  came, 

And  heavings,  as  a  troubled  sea, 
Went  o'er  his  blighted  frame. 

I  did  not  ask  him  who  was  there; 

I  felt  that  Ann  was  gone; 
Around  his  drooping  neck  I  hung, 

And  stood  like  him  forlorn. 


146  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"I  soon  shall  die,"  the  mourner  said; 

"Here  will  they  make  my  grave, 
And  over  me  the  Cedar  trees 

And  moaning  Pines  will  wave. 

None  then  will  come  to  tend  the  flowers 
That  blossom  o'er  her  bed; 

None  sing  for  her  the  twilight  dirge, 
When  I  am  with  the  dead. 

I  can  not  join  the  school-boy  sports ; 

My  head  and  heart  are  sad; 
When  Ann  is  in  her  silent  grave, 

Oh,  how  can  I  be  glad? 

And  when  I  say  my  studied  tasks, 
Or  gain  the  once-loved  prize, 

I  weep,  and  softly  pray  to  Heaven 
To  lay  me  where  she  lies." 

I  kiss'd  his  pale  and  suffering  brow, 
By  early  sorrows  riven; 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  147 

I  talk'd  to  him  of  her  he  lov'd, 
And  rais'd  his  thoughts  to  Heaven. 

And  when  the  call  of  duty  came, 

To  take  me  from  his  side, 

He  told  me,  with  a  sickly  smile, 

"'Twas  best  that  Ann  had  died." 
******* 

Another  annual  season  roll'd 

Its  cares  and  joys  along — 
Again  I  sought  the  country's  charms, 

Deep  woods  and  caroll'd  song. 

And  there  I  found  two  silent  graves 

Amid  the  vernal  bloom — 
I  ne'er  shall  see  those  forms  again, 

'Till  Heaven  unseals  the  tomb. 

Oh,  Southern  summer,  false  and  fair, 

Why,  on  thy  loaded  wing, 
Blent  with  rich  flowers  and  fruitage  rare, 

The  seeds  of  sorrow  bring? 


148 


THE  OLD  FROCK. 

Mrs.  Alger  and  her  daughter  were  sitting 
together  one  morning  in  the  holidays,  sewing. 

Jane  sighed.  "Why  do  you  sigh?"  asked 
her  mother. 

"  Because,  mamma,"  said  she,  with  a  slight 
blush,  "I  cannot  go  to  Miss  Warrington's 
party." 

"Why  not,  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Alger. 

"Because,  mamma,"  said  Jane,  "I  have 
worn  my  party  dress  so  many  times,  that  I 
am  ashamed  of  it." 

"Is  it  soiled,  Jane?"  asked  her  mother. 

"No,  mamma,"  said  Jane. 

"Is  it  injured  in  any  way?"  continued 
Mrs.  Alger. 

"No,  mamma,"  said  Jane, 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  \ 49 

"Why  do  you  object  to  wearing  it  then?" 
inquired  her  mother. 

Jane  blushed  very  deeply,  and  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  as  she  answered,  "  Oh,  mamma, 
when  I  went  to  Mrs.  Anderson's,  the  other 
evening,  Miranda  Warren  whispered  loud 
enough  for  me  to  hear,  to  a  young  lady  who 
stood  near  her,  "there  comes  Miss  Onefrock!" 
and  here  Jane  let  her  work  fall  from  her  hand, 
and  laying  her  head  on  the  table,  sobbed 
aloud. 

Mrs.  Alger  paused  until  the  violence  of 
Jane's  feelings  had  subsided. 

"Is  Miss  Warren  a  very  superior  girl?" 
said  she,  calmly. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,  mamma ;  but  she  has 
every  thing  elegant  to  wear.  Her  frocks  are 
of  the  nicest  materials,  and  she  seldom  wears 
the  same  to  two  parties  in  succession;  but 
I  should  not  mind  that,  mamma;  she  might 
wear,  the  dress  of  a  Princess,  and  I  would 


150  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

not  envy  her,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  know 
that  she  ridicules  me ;  I  can  not,  can  not  bear 
it,"  said  Jane. 

"I  am  sorry,  my  dear  child,"  replied  her 
mother,  "that  I  am  unable  to  consult  your 
taste  and  feelings,  and  give  you  a  new  frock, 
because  you  generally  try  to  please  me,  and 
I  would  willingly  gratify  you ;  but  I  can  not 
afford  it.     You  must  dress  according  to  my 


means." 


"I  think,  then,  mamma,"  said  Jane,  "1 
had  best  give  up  society." 

"  I  am  indifferent  about  your  attending  par- 
ties, Jane,  and  you  may  consult  your  own 
feelings ;  but  I  should  regret  to  have  you 
give  them  up  on  account  of  dress.  Now 
tell  me  honestly,  do  you  think  Miss  Warren 
happier  than  other  girls?" 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Jane ;  "  I  cannot  think 
it  happiness  to  put  every  thing  in  a  ridicu- 
lous point  of  view.     Most  of  her  conversation 


THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH.  \§\ 

is  ridicule.  She  seems  to  see  what  is  wrong 
and  not  what  is  right.  Rosalie  Withers,  her 
cousin,  is  so  different.  She  is  just  as  rich, 
and  dresses  quite  as  tastefully ;  but  she  looks 
as  pleasant  upon  a  plain  dress  on  others,  as 
she  would  upon  the  richest  jewels." 

"  Why  not  cultivate  Rosalie's  society  then," 
said  her  mother,  "  and  avoid  Miranda's  V ' 

"Oh,  mamma,"  said  Jane, " because  Miran- 
da is  so  amusing.  She  has  such  a  droll  way 
of  mimicing  people,  and  talking  about  them, 
that  one  can  not  help  laughing,  even  when 
one  does  not  approve  of  it." 

"You  confess,  then,  my  daughter,  that  you 
have  listened  and  laughed,  when  Miranda  has 
ridiculed  others?" 

Jane  looked  down. 

"  Do  you  perceive  much  difference  between 
a  person  who  ridicules  another,  and  one  who 
enjoys  the  joke?" 


152  THE  ROSE-BUD  WREATH. 

"I  confess,"  said  Jane,  "I  have  been  a- 
mused  by  Miranda's  wit  very  often." 

"  You  deserve,  then,"  ^aid  her  mother,  with 
some  severity,  "to  be  ridiculed  by  her.  But 
I  do  not  wish  to  continue  this  subject.  It 
is  entirely  out  of  my  power  to  make  frequent 
changes  in  your  dress.  If  you  wish  to  go 
into  society  with  a  modest,  social  spirit,  sim- 
ple in  your  costume,  and  amiable  in  your 
manners,  society  will  not  hurt  you;  but  if 
your  object  is  display,  I  would  rather  see  you 
clothed  in  homespun  by  the  chimney  comer." 


Date  Due 

-    ^'33»t 

tiVtZU'-'ii'i 

■/ 

&-ll'-,jr 

tta#l  m 

CARJ"' 17 

40 

BABApJ 

4f 

*RREL  NO. 

I0V»8f( 

I" 

Library  Bureau   Cat.  no.  1137 

CALL  NUMBER 


Vol. 


Date  (for  periodical) 


Copy  No. 


811.49      0437R 


2328C5 


